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Plays  for  a  People's  Theater.     11. 


Touch   and   Go 


Touch  and  Go 


A  Play  in  Three  Acts 


By 
D.  H.  LAWRENCE 


V 


New  York 

THOMAS  SELTZER 

1920 


Copyright,  1920, 
By   Thomas    Seltzer,    Inc. 

The  dramatic  agent  for  this  play  is 

Mr.   Walter  Peacock,  20  Green   St., 

Leicester  Square,  London. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 
All  Rights  Reserved 


PREFACE 

A  NICE  phrase:  ''A  People's  Theatre."  But  what  about 
it?  There's  no  such  thing  in  existence  as  a  People's 
Theatre :  or  even  on  the  way  to  existence,  as  far  as  we  can 
tell.  The  name  is  chosen,  the  baby  isn't  even  begotten: 
nay,  the  would-be  parents  aren't  married,  nor  yet  court- 
ing. 

A  People's  Theatre.  Note  the  indefinite  article.  It 
isn't  The  People's  Theatre,  but  A  People's  Theatre.  Not 
The  people :  il  popolo,  le  peuple,  das  Volk,  this  monster 
is  the  same  the  Avorld  over:  Plebs,  the  proletariat.  Not 
the  theatre  of  Plebs,  the  proletariat,  but  the  theatre  of 
A  People.  What  people"?  Quel  peuple  done? — A 
People's  Theatre.    Translate  it  into  French  for  yourself. 

A  People's  Theatre.  Since  we  can't  produce  it,  let  us 
deduce  it.  Major  premiss:  the  seats  are  cheap.  Minor 
premiss:  the  plays  are  good.  Conclusion:  A  People's 
Theatre.  How  much  will  you  give  me  for  my  syllogism  ? 
Not  a  slap  in  the  eye,  I  hope. 

We  stick  to  our  guns.  The  seats  are  cheap.  That 
has  a  nasty  proletarian  look  about  it.  But  appearances 
are  deceptive.  The  proletariat  isn't  poor.  Everybody  is 
poor  except  Capital  and  Labour.  Between  these  upper 
and  nether  millstones  great  numbers  of  decent  people 
are  squeezed. 

The   seat   are   cheap :    in   decency 's   name.      Nobody 

5 


6  TOUCH  AND  GO 

wants  to  swank,  to  sit  in  the  front  of  a  box  like  a  gera- 
nium on  a  window-sill — ''the  cynosure  of  many  eyes." 
Nobody  wants  to  profiteer.  We  all  feel  that  it  is  as  hu- 
miliating to  pay  high  prices  as  to  charge  them.  No  man 
consents  in  his  heart  to  pay  high  prices  unless  he  feels 
that  what  he  pays  with  his  right  hand  he  will  get  back 
with  his  left,  either  out  of  the  pocket  of  a  man  who  isn  't 
looking,  or  out  of  the  envy  of  the  poor  neighbour  who 
is  looking,  but  can't  afford  the  figure.  The  seats  are 
cheap.  Why  should  A  People,  fabulous  and  lofty  giraffe, 
want  to  charge  or  to  pay  high  prices?  If  it  were  the 
people  now. — But  it  isn't.  It  isn't  Plebs,  the  prolet- 
ariat.   The  seats  are  cheap. 

The  plays  are  good.  Pah! — this  has  a  canting  smell. 
Any  play  is  good  to  the  man  who  likes  to  look  at  it. 
And  at  that  rate  Chu  Chin  Chow  is  extra-super-good. 
What  about  your  good  plays?  Whose  good?  Pfui  to 
your  goodness! 

That  minor  premiss  is  a  bad  egg:  it  will  hatch  no 
bird.  Good  plays?  You  might  as  well  say  mimsy 
bomtittle  plays,  you'd  be  saying  as  much.  The  plays 
are — don't  say  good  or  you'll  be  beaten.  The  plays — 
the  plays  of  A  People's  Theatre  are — oh  heaven,  what 
are  they? — not  popular  nor  populous  nor  plebian  nor 
proletarian  nor  folk  nor  parish  plays.  None  of  that 
adjectival  spawn. 

The  only  clue- word  is  People's  for  all  that.  A 
People's Chaste  word,  it  will  bring  forth  no  adjec- 
tive. The  plays  of  A  People's  Theatre  are  People's 
plays.  The  plays  of  A  People 's  Theatre  are  plays  about 
people. 

It  doesn  't  look  much,  at  first  sight.    After  all — people ! 


TOUCH  AND  GO  7 

Yes,  people!  Not  the  people,  i.e.  Plebs,  nor  yet  the 
Upper  Ten.  People.  Neither  Piccoli  nor  Grandi  in 
our  republic.    People. 

People,  ah  God !  Not  mannequins.  Not  lords  nor  pro- 
letariats nor  bishops  nor  husbands  nor  co-respondents 
nor  virgins  nor  adultresses  nor  uncles  nor  noses.  Not 
even  white  rabbits  nor  presidents.     People. 

Men  who  are  somebody,  not  men  who  are  something. 
Men  who  Jiappen  to  be  bishops  or  co-respondents,  women 
who  happen  to  be  chaste,  just  as  they  happen  to  freckle, 
because  it's  one  of  their  innumerable  odd  qualities. 
Even  men  who  happen,  by  the  way,  to  have  long  noses. 
But  not  noses  on  two  legs,  not  burly  pairs  of  gaiters, 
stuffed  and  voluble,  not  white  meringues  of  chastity, 
not  incarnations  of  co-respondence.  Not  proletariats, 
petitioners,  presidents,  noses,  bits  of  fluff.  Heavens, 
what  an  assortment  of  bits!  And  aren't  we  sick  of 
them! 

People,  I  say.  And  after  all,  it's  saying  something. 
It's  harder  to  be  a  human  being  than  to  be  a  president 
or  a  bit  of  fluff.  You  can  be  a  president,  or  a  bit  of 
fluff,  or  even  a  nose,  by  clockwork.  Given  a  role,  a 
part,  you  can  play  it  by  clockwork.  But  you  can 't  have 
a  clockwork  human  being. 

We're  dead  sick  of  parts.  It's  no  use  your  protesting 
that  there  is  a  man  behind  the  nose.  We  can't  see  him, 
and  he  can't  see  himself.  Nothing  but  nose.  Neither 
can  you  make  us  believe  there  is  a  man  inside  the  gaiters. 
He's  never  showed  his  head  yet. 

It  may  be,  in  real  life,  the  gaiters  wear  the  man,  as 
the  nose  wears  Cyrano.  It  may  be  Sir  Auckland  Geddes 
and  Mr.  J.  H.  Thomas  are  only  clippings  from  the  illus- 


8  TOUCH  AND  GO 

trated  press.  It  may  be  that  a  miner  is  a  complicated 
machine  for  cutting  coal  and  voting  on  a  ballot-paper. 
It  may  be  that  coal-owners  are  like  the  petit  hleu  ar- 
rangement, a  system  of  vacuum  tubes  for  whooshing 
Bradbury s  about  from  one  to  the  other. 

It  may  be  that  everybody  delights  in  bits,  in  parts, 
that  the  public  insists  on  noses,  gaiters,  white  rabbits, 
bits  of  fluff,  automata  and  gewgaws.  If  they  do,  then 
let  'em.    Chu  Chin  Chow  for  ever! 

In  spite  of  them  all :  A  People 's  Theatre.  A  People 's 
Theatre  shows  men,  and  not  parts.  Not  bits,  nor  bun- 
dles of  bits.  A  whole  bunch  of  roles  tied  into  one  won 't 
make  an  individual.  Though  gaiters  perish,  we  will 
have  men. 

Although  most  miners  may  be  pick-cum-shovel-cum- 
ballot  implements,  and  no  more,  still,  among  miners  there 
must  be  two  or  three  living  individuals.  The  same 
among  the  masters.  The  majority  are  suction-tubes  for 
Bradburys.  But  in  this  Sodom  of  Industrialism  there 
are  surely  ten  men,  all  told.  My  poor  little  withered 
grain  of  mustard  seed,  I  am  half  afraid  to  take  you 
across  to  the  seed-testing  department ! 

And  if  there  are  men,  there  is  A  People's  Theatre. 

How  many  tragic  situations  did  Goethe  say  were 
possible?  Something  like  thirty- two.  Which  seems  a 
lot.  Anyhow,  granted  that  men  are  men  still,  that  not 
all  of  them  are  bits,  parts,  machine-sections,  then  we 
have  added  another  tragic  possibility  to  the  list:  the 
Strike  situation.  As  yet  no  one  tackles  this  situation. 
It  is  a  sort  of  Medusa  head,  which  turns — no,  not  to 
stone,  but  to  sloppy  treacle.  Mr.  Galsworthy  had  a  peep, 
and  sank  down  towards  bathos. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  9 

Granted  that  men  are  still  men,  Labour  v.  Capitalism 
is  a  tragic  struggle.  If  men  are  no  more  than  imple- 
ments, it  is  non-tragic  and  merely  disastrous.  In  tragedy 
the  man  is  more  than  his  part.  Hamlet  is  more  than 
Prince  of  Denmark,  Macbeth  is  more  than  murderer  of 
Duncan.  The  man  is  caught  in  the  wheels  of  his  part, 
his  fate,  he  may  be  torn  asunder.  He  may  be  killed, 
but  the  resistant,  integral  soul  in  him  is  not  destroyed. 
He  comes  through,  though  he  dies.  He  goes  through 
with  his  fate,  though  death  swallows  him.  And  it  is  in 
this  facing  of  fate,  this  going  right  through  with  it, 
that  tragedy  lies.  Tragedy  is  not  disaster.  It  is  a  dis- 
aster when  a  cart-wheel  goes  over  a  frog,  but  it  is  not 
a  tragedy.  Tragedy  is  the  working  out  of  some  im- 
mediate passional  problem  within  the  soul  of  man.  If 
this  passional  problem  and  this  working  out  be  absent, 
then  no  disaster  is  a  tragedy,  not  the  hugest;  not  the 
death  of  ten  million  men.  It  is  only  a  cartwheel  going 
over  a  frog.    There  must  be  a  supreme  struggle. 

In  Shakespeare's  time  it  was  the  people  versus  king 
storm  that  was  brewing.  Majesty  was  about  to  have 
its  head  off.  Come  Avhat  might,  Hamlet  and  Macbeth 
and  Goneril  and  Regan  had  to  see  the  business  through. 

Now  a  new  wind  is  getting  up.  We  call  it  Labour 
versus  Capitalism.  We  say  it  is  a  mere  material  strug- 
gle, a  money-grabbing  affair.  But  this  is  only  one  as- 
pect of  it.  In  so  far  as  men  are  merely  mechanical, 
the  struggle  is  one  which,  though  it  may  bring  disaster 
and  death  to  millions,  is  no  more  than  accident,  an  acci- 
dental collision  of  forces.  But  in  so  far  as  men  are  men, 
the  situation  is  tragic.  It  is  not  really  the  bone  we  are 
fighting  for.    We  are  fighting  to  have  somebody's  head 


10  TOUCH  AND  GO 

off.  The  conflict  is  in  pure,  passional  antagonism,  turn- 
ing upon  the  poles  of  belief.  Majesty  was  only  Jiors 
d'(Bvres  to  this  tragic  repast. 

So,  the  strike  situation  has  this  dual  aspect.  First 
it  is  a  mechanico-material  struggle,  two  mechanical  forces 
pulling  asunder  from  the  central  object,  the  bone.  All 
it  can  result  in  is  the  pulling  asunder  of  the  fabric  of 
civilisation,  and  even  of  life,  without  any  creative  issue. 
It  is  no  more  than  a  frog  under  a  cart-wheel.  The  me- 
chanical forces,  rolling  on,  roll  over  the  body  of  life 
and  squash  it. 

The  second  is  the  tragic  aspect.  According  to  this 
vicAV,  we  see  more  than  two  dogs  fighting  for  a  bone, 
and  life  hopping  under  the  Juggernaut  wheel.  The  two 
dogs  are  making  the  bone  a  pretext  for  a  fight  with  each 
other.  That  old  bull-dog,  the  British  capitalist,  has 
got  the  bone  in  his  teeth.  That  unsatisfied  mongrel, 
Plebs,  the  proletariat,  shivers  with  rage  not  so  much  at 
sight  of  the  bone,  as  at  sight  of  the  great  wrinkled  jowl 
that  holds  it.  There  is  the  old  dog,  with  his  knowing 
look  and  his  massive  grip  on  the  bone:  and  there  is 
the  insatiable  mongrel,  with  his  great  splay  paws.  The 
one  is  all  head  and  arrogance,  the  other  all  paws  and 
grudge.  The  bone  is  only  the  pretext.  A  first  condition 
of  the  being  of  Bully  is  that  he  shall  hate  the  prowling 
great  paws  of  Plebs,  whilst  Plebs  by  inherent  nature 
goes  mad  at  the  sight  of  Bully's  jowl.  ''Drop  it!"  cries 
Plebs.  ' '  Hands  off ! "  growls  Bully.  It  is  hands  against 
head,  the  shambling,  servile  body  in  a  rage  of  insurrec- 
tion at  last  against  the  wrinkled,  heavy  head. 

Labour  not  only  wants  his  debt.  He  wants  his  pound 
of  flesh.    It  is  a  quandary.    In  our  heart  of  hearts  we 


TOUCH  AND  GO  11 

must  admit  the  debt.  We  must  admit  that  it  is  long 
overdue.  But  this  last  condition!  In  vain  we  study 
our  anatomy  to  see  which  part  we  can  best  spare. 

Where  is  our  Portia,  to  save  us  with  a  timely  quibble  ? 
We've  plenty  of  Portias.  They've  recited  their  heads 
off — "The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained."  But  the 
old  Shylock  of  the  proletariat  persists.  He  pops  up 
again,  and  says,  ''All  right,  I  can't  have  my  pound  of 
flesh  with  the  blood.  But  then  you  can't  keep  my  pound 
of  flesh  with  your  blood — you  owe  it  to  me.  It  is  your 
business  to  deliver  the  goods.  Deliver  it  then — ^with  or 
without  blood — deliver  it."  Then  Portia  scratches  her 
head,  and  thinks  again. 

What's  the  solution?  There  is  no  solution.  But  still 
there  is  a  choice.  There's  a  choice  between  a  mess  and 
a  tragedy.  If  Plebs  and  Bully  hang  on  one  to  each 
end  of  the  bone,  and  pull  for  grim  life,  they  will  at  last 
tear  the  bone  to  atoms:  in  short,  destroy  the  whole 
material  substance  of  life,  and  so  perish  by  accident,  no 
better  than  a  frog  under  the  wheel  of  destiny.  That 
may  be  a  disaster,  but  it  is  only  a  mess  for  all  that. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  they  have  a  fight  to  fight  they 
might  really  drop  the  bone.  Instead  of  wrangling  the 
bone  to  bits  they  might  really  go  straight  for  one 
another.  They  are  like  hostile  parties  on  board  a  ship, 
who  both  proceed  to  scuttle  the  ship  so  as  to  sink  the 
other  party.  Down  goes  the  ship,  with  all  the  bally  lot 
on  board.  A  few  survivors  swim  and  squeal  among  the 
bubbles — and  then  silence. 

It  is  too  much  to  suppose  that  the  combatants  will 
ever  drop  the  obvious  old  bone.  But  it  is  not  too  much 
to  imagine  that  some  men  might  acknowledge  the  bone 


12  TOUCH  AND  GO 

to  be  merely  a  pretext,  another  hollow  casus  belli.  If 
we  really  could  know  what  we  were  fighting  for,  if  we 
could  deeply  believe  in  what  we  were  fighting  for,  then 
the  struggle  might  have  dignity,  beauty,  satisfaction  for 
us.  If  it  were  a  profound  struggle  for  something  that 
was  coming  to  life  in  us,  a  struggle  that  we  were  con- 
vinced would  bring  us  to  a  new  freedom,  a  new  life, 
then  it  would  be  a  creative  activity,  a  creative  activity 
in  which  death  is  a  climax  in  the  progression  towards 
new  being.    And  this  is  tragedy. 

Therefore,  if  we  could  but  comprehend  or  feel  the 
tragedy  in  the  great  Labour  struggle,  the  intrinsic 
tragedy  of  having  to  pass  through  death  to  birth,  our 
souls  would  still  know  some  happiness,  the  very  happi- 
ness of  creative  suffering.  Instead  of  which  we  pile 
accident  on  accident,  we  tear  the  fabric  of  our  existence 
fibre  by  fibre,  we  confidently  look  forward  to  the  time 
when  the  whole  great  structure  will  come  down  on  our 
heads.  Yet  after  all  that,  when  we  are  squirming  under 
the  debris,  we  shall  have  no  more  faith  or  hope  or  satis- 
faction than  we  have  now.  We  shall  crawl  from  under 
one  cart-wheel  straight  under  another. 

The  essence  of  tragedy,  which  is  creative  crisis,  is  that 
a  man  should  go  through  with  his  fate,  and  not  dodge 
it  and  go  bumping  into  an  accident.  And  the  whole 
business  of  life,  at  the  great  critical  periods  of  mankind, 
is  that  men  should  accept  and  be  one  with  their  tragedy. 
Therefore  we  should  open  our  hearts.  For  one  thing 
we  should  have  a  People's  Theatre.  Perhaps  it  would 
help  us  in  this  hour  of  confusion  better  than  anything. 

Hermitage, 
June,  1919. 


CHARACTERS 

Gerald  Barlow. 
Mr.  Barlow  (Ms  fatJier). 
Oliver  Turton. 
Job  Arthur  Freer. 
Willie  Houghton. 
Alfred  Breffitt. 
William  {a  hutlei^). 
Clerks,  Miners,  etc. 
Anabel  Wrath. 
Mrs.  Barlow. 
Winifred  Barlow. 
Eva  (a  maid). 


Touch  and  Go 

ACT  I 

Scene  I 

Sunday  morning.    Market-place  of  a  large  mining  vil- 
lage in  tlie  Midlands.     A  man  addressing  a  small 
gang  of  colliers  from  tlie  foot  of  a  stumpy  meynorial 
obelisk.    Church  hells  heard.    Church-goers  passing 
along  the  outer  pavements. 
Willie    Houghton.     What's   the   matter   with   you 
folks,  as  I've  told  you  before,  and  as  I  shall  keep  on 
telling  you  every  now  and  again,   though   it   doesn't 
make  a  bit  of  difference,  is  that  you've  got  no  idea  of 
freedom  whatsoever.    I  've  lived  in  this  blessed  place  for 
fifty  years,  and  I've  never  seen  the  spark  of  an  idea, 
nor  of  any  response  to  an  idea,  come  out  of  a  single  one 
of  you,  all  the  time.     I  don't  know  what  it  is  with 
colliers — whether   it's   spending   so   much  time   in   the 
bowels  of  the  earth — but  they  never  seem  to  be  able 
to  get  their  thoughts  above  their  bellies.     If  you've 
got  plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  and  a  bit  over  to  keep 
the  missis  quiet,  you're  satisfied.     I  never  saw  such  a 
satisfied  bloomin'  lot  in  my  life  as  you  Barlow  &  Wal- 
sall's men  are,  really.     Of  course  you  can  growse  aa 
well  as  anybody,  and  you  do  growse.     But  you  don't 
do  anything  else.     You're  stuck  in  a  sort  of  mud  of 
contentment,  and  you  feel  yourselves  sinking,  but  you 
make  no  efforts  to  get  out.    You  bleat  a  bit,  like  sheep 

15 


16  TOUCH  AND  GO 

in  a  bog — ^but  you  like  it,  you  know.  You  like  sink- 
ing in — you  don't  have  to  stand  on  your  own  feet 
then. 

I'll  tell  you  what '11  happen  to  you  chaps.  I'll  give 
you  a  little  picture  of  what  you'll  be  like  in  the  future. 
Barlow  &  Walsall's  '11  make  a  number  of  compounds, 
such  as  they  keep  niggers  in  in  South  Africa,  and  there 
you'll  be  kept.  And  every  one  of  you'll  have  a  little 
brass  collar  round  his  neck,  with  a  number  on  it.  You 
won't  have  names  any  more.  And  you'll  go  from  the 
compound  to  the  pit,  and  from  the  pit  back  again  to 
the  compound.  You  won't  be  allowed  to  go  outside 
the  gates,  except  at  week-ends.  They'll  let  you  go 
home  to  your  wives  on  Saturday  nights,  to  stop  over 
Sunday.  But  you'll  have  to  be  in  again  by  half -past 
nine  on  Sunday  night;  and  if  you're  late,  you'll  have 
your  next  week-end  knocked  ofP.  And  there  you'll  be 
— and  you'll  be  quite  happy.  They'll  give  you  plenty 
to  eat,  and  a  can  of  beer  a  day,  and  a  bit  of  bacca — 
and  they'll  provide  dominoes  and  skittles  for  you  to 
play  with.  And  you'll  be  the  most  contented  set  of 
men  alive. — But  you  won't  be  men.  You  won't  even 
be  animals.  You'll  go  from  number  one  to  number 
three  thousand,  a  lot  of  numbered  slaves — a  new  sort 
of  slaves 

Voice.    An'  wheer  shall  thee  be,  Willie? 

Willie.  Oh,  I  shall  be  outside  the  palings,  laughing 
at  you.  I  shall  have  to  laugh,  because  it'll  be  your  own 
faults.  You'll  have  nobody  but  yourself  to  thank  for 
it.  You  don't  want  to  be  men.  You'd  rather  not  be 
free — much  rather.  You're  like  those  people  spoken 
of  in  Shakespeare:  **0h,  how  eager  these  men  are  to  be 


TOUCH  AND  GO  17 

slaves!*'  I  believe  it's  Shakespeare— or  the  Bible- 
one  or  the  other — it  mostly  is 

Anabel  Wrath  (slie  was  passing  to  cliurch).  It  was 
Tiberius. 

Willie.     Eh? 

Anabel.     Tiberius  said  it. 

Willie.  Tiberius!— Oh,  did  he?  (Laughs.)  Thanks! 
Well,  if  Tiberius  said  it,  there  must  be  something  in  it. 
And  he  only  just  missed  being  in  the  Bible  anjnvay. 
He  was  a  day  late,  or  they'd  have  had  him  in.  "Oh, 
how  eager  these  men  are  to  be  slaves!" — It^s  evident 
the  Romans  deserved  all  they  got  from  Tiberius — and 
you'll  deserve  all  you  get,  every  bit  of  it.  But  don't 
you  bother,  you'll  get  it.  You  won't  be  at  the  mercy 
of  Tiberius,  you'll  be  at  the  mercy  of  something  a  jolly 
sight  worse.  Tiberius  took  the  skin  off  a  few  Romans, 
apparently.  But  you'll  have  the  soul  taken  out  of  you 
— every  one  of  you.  And  I'd  rather  lose  my  skin  than 
my  soul,  any  day.    But  perhaps  you  wouldn't. 

Voice.  What  art  makin'  for,  Willie?  Tha  seems 
to  say  a  lot,  but  tha  goes  round  it.  Tha'rt  like  a  donkey 
on  a  gin.    Tha  gets  ravelled. 

Willie.  Yes,  that's  just  it.  I  am  precisely  like  a 
donkey  on  a  gin — a  donkey  that's  trying  to  wind  a 
lot  of  colliers  up  to  the  surface.  There's  many  a  donkey 
that's  brought  more  colliers  than  you  up  to  see  day- 
light, by  trotting  round. — But  do  you  want  to  know 
what  I'm  making  for?  I  can  soon  tell  you  that.  You 
Barlow  &  Walsall 's  men,  you  haven 't  a  soul  to  call  your 
your  own.  Barlow  &  Walsall's  have  only  to  say  to 
one  of  you,  Come,  and  he  cometh,  Go,  and  he  goeth,  Lie 


18  TOUCH  AND  GO 

down  and  be  kicked,  and  he  lieth  down  and  he  is  kicked 
— and  serve  him  jolly  well  right. 

Voice.  Ay — an'  what  about  it?  Tha's  got  a  behind 
o'  thy  own,  hasn't  ter? 

Willie.  Do  you  stand  there  and  ask  me  what  about 
it,  and  haven't  the  sense  to  alter  it?  Couldn't  you  set 
up  a  proper  Government  to-morrow,  if  you  liked? 
Couldn't  you  contrive  that  the  pits  belonged  to  you, 
instead  of  you  belonging  to  the  pits,  like  so  many  old 
pit-ponies  that  stop  down  till  they  are  blind,  and  take 
to  eating  coal-slack  for  meadow-grass,  not  knowing 
the  difference  ?  If  only  you  'd  learn  to  think,  I  'd  respect 
you.  As  you  are,  I  can't,  not  if  I  try  my  hardest.  All 
you  can  think  of  is  to  ask  for  another  shilling  a  day. 
That's  as  far  as  your  imagination  carries  you.  And 
perhaps  you  get  sevenpence  ha'penny,  but  pay  for  it 
with  half-a-crown 's  worth  of  sweat.  The  masters  aren't 
fools — as  you  are.  They'll  give  you  two- thirds  of  what 
you  ask  for,  but  they'll  get  five-thirds  of  it  back  again — 
and  they'll  get  it  out  of  your  flesh  and  blood,  too,  in 
jolly  hard  work.  Shylock  wasn't  in  it  with  them.  He 
only  wanted  a  pound  of  flesh.  But  you  cheerfully  give 
up  a  pound  a  week,  each  one  of  you,  and  keep  on  giving 
it  up. — But  you  don't  seem  to  see  these  things.  You 
can't  think  beyond  your  dinners  and  your  'lowance. 
You  think  if  you  can  get  another  shilling  a  day  you're 
set  up.    You  make  me  tired,  I  tell  you. 

Job  Arthur  Freer.  We  think  of  others  besides  our- 
selves. 

Willie.  Hello,  Job  Arthur — are  you  there?  I  didn't 
recognise  you  without  your  frock-coat  and  silk  hat — on 
the  Sabbath. — What  was  that  you  said?     You  think  of 


TOUCH  AND  GO  19 

Bomething  else,  besides  yourselves? — Oh  ay — I'm  glad  to 
hear  it.    Did  you  mean  your  own  importance  ? 

(A  motor  car,  Gerald  Barlow  driving,  Oliver  Turton 
vntJi  Jiim,  has  pulled  up.) 

Job  Arthur  (glancing  at  the  car).    No,  I  didn't. 

Willie.  Didn't  you,  though? — Come,  speak  up,  let 
us  have  it.  The  more  the  merrier.  You  were  going  to 
say  something. 

Job  Arthur.     Nay,  you  were  doing  the  talking. 

Willie.  Yes,  so  I  was,  till  you  interrupted,  with  a 
great  idea  on  the  tip  of  your  tongue.  Come,  spit  it  out. 
No  matter  if  Mr.  Barlow  hears  you.  You  know  how 
sorry  for  you  we  feel,  that  youVe  always  got  to  make 
your  speeches  twice — once  to  those  above,  and  once  to 
us  here  below.  I  didn't  mean  the  angels  and  the  devils, 
but  never  mind.    Speak  up.  Job  Arthur. 

Job  Arthur.  It's  not  everybody  as  has  as  much  to 
say  as  you,  Mr.  Houghton. 

Willie.  No,  not  in  the  open — that's  a  fact.  Some 
folks  says  a  great  deal  more,  in  semi-private.  You  were 
just  going  to  explain  to  me,  on  behalf  of  the  men,  whom 
you  so  ably  represent  and  so  wisely  lead.  Job  Arthur — 
we  won't  say  by  the  nose — you  were  just  going  to  tell 
me — on  behalf  of  the  men,  of  course,  not  of  the  masters 
— that  you  think  of  others,  besides  yourself.  Do  you 
mind  explaining  what  others? 

Job  Arthur.  Everybody's  used  to  your  talk,  Mr. 
Houghton,  and  for  that  reason  it  doesn't  make  much 
impression.    What  I  meant  to  say,  in  plain  words,  was 


20  TOUCH  AND  GO 

that  we  have  to  think  of  what's  best  for  everybody,  not 
only  for  ourselves. 

Willie.  Oh,  I  see.  What's  best  for  everybody!  I 
see!  Well,  for  myself,  I'm  much  obliged — there's  noth- 
ing for  us  to  do,  gentlemen,  but  for  all  of  us  to  bow  ac- 
knowledgments to  Mr.  Job  Arthur  Freer,  who  so  kindly 
has  all  our  interests  at  heart. 

Job  Arthur.  I  don 't  profess  to  be  a  red-rag  Socialist. 
I  don't  pretend  to  think  that  if  the  Government  had  the 
pits  it  would  be  any  better  for  us.  No.  What  I  mean 
is,  that  the  pits  are  there,  and  every  man  on  this  place 
depends  on  them,  one  way  or  another.  They're  the  cow 
that  gives  the  milk.  And  what  I  mean  is,  how  every 
man  shall  have  a  proper  share  of  the  milk,  which  is  food 
and  living.  I  don't  want  to  kill  the  cow  and  share  up 
the  meat.  It 's  like  killing  the  goose  that  laid  the  golden 
egg.  I  want  to  keep  the  cow  healthy  and  strong.  And 
the  cow  is  the  pits,  and  we're  the  men  that  depend  on 
the  pits. 

Willie.     Who 's  the  cat  that 's  going  to  lick  the  cream  1 

Job  Arthur.  My  position  is  this — and  I  state  it  be- 
fore masters  and  men — that  it's  our  business  to  strike 
such  a  balance  between  the  interests  of  the  men  and  the 
interests  of  the  masters  that  the  pits  remain  healthy, 
and  everybody  profits. 

Willie.  You're  out  for  the  millennium,  I  can  see — 
with  Mr.  Job  Arthur  Freer  striking  the  balance.  We  all 
see  you.  Job  Arthur,  one  foot  on  either  side  of  the  fence, 
balancing  the  see-saw,  with  masters  at  one  end  and  men 
at  the  other.  You'll  have  to  give  one  side  a  lot  of  pud- 
ding.— But  go  back  a  bit,  to  where  we  were  before  the 
motor  car  took  your  breath  away.    When  you  said,  Job 


TOUCH  AND  GO  21 

Arthur,  that  you  think  of  others  besides  yourself,  didn't 
you  mean,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  office  men?  Didn't 
you  mean  that  the  colliers,  led — we  won 't  mention  noses 
— by  you,  were  going  to  come  out  in  sympathy  with  the 
office  clerks,  supposing  they  didn't  get  the  rise  in  wages 
which  they've  asked  for — the  office  clerks?  Wasn't 
that  it? 

Job  Arthur.  There's  been  some  talk  among  the 
men  of  standing  by  the  office.  I  don 't  know  what  they  '11 
do.  But  they'll  do  it  of  their  own  decision,  whatever 
it  is. 

Willie.  There's  not  a  shadow  of  doubt  about  it,  Job 
Arthur.  But  it's  a  funny  thing  the  decisions  all  have 
the  same  foxy  smell  about  them.  Job  Arthur. 

Oliver  Turton  (calling  from  the  car).  What  was 
the  speech  about,  in  the  first  place? 

Willie.     I  beg  pardon? 

Oliver.     What  was  the  address  about,  to  begin  with? 

Willie.  Oh,  the  same  old  hat — Freedom.  But  partly 
it's  given  to  annoy  the  Unco  Guid,  as  they  pass  to  their 
Sabbath  banquet  of  self-complacency. 

Oliver.     What  about  Freedom? 

Willie.  Very  much  as  usual,  I  believe.  But  you 
should  have  been  here  ten  minutes  sooner,  before  we 
began  to  read  the  lessons.     (Lauglis.) 

Anabel  W.  (moving  forward,  and  holding  out  her 
hand).  You'd  merely  have  been  told  what  Freedom 
isn't :  and  you  know  that  already.    How  are  you,  Oliver? 

Oliver.  Good  God,  Anabel! — are  you  part  of  the 
meeting?    How  long  have  you  been  back  in  England? 

Anabel.  Some  months,  now.  My  family  have  moved 
here,  you  know. 


22  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Oliver.  Your  family!  Where  have  they  moved 
from? — from  the  moon? 

Anabel.  No,  only  from  Derby. — How  are  you, 
Gerald? 

('Gerald  twists  in  Ms  seat  to  give  Iter  his  Jiand,) 


Gerald.     I  saw  you  before. 
Anabel.     Yes,  I  know  you  did. 


('Job  Arthur  Jias  disappeared.  TJie  men  disperse  slieep- 
isJily  into  groups,  to  stand  and  sit  on  tJieir  Jieels 
by  the  walls  and  tJie  causeway  edge.  Willie 
Houghton  begins  to  talk  to  individuals.) 

Oliver.  Won't  you  get  in  and  drive  on  with  us  a 
little  way? 

Anabel.     No,  I  was  going  to  church. 

Oliver.     Going  to  church!    Is  that  a  new  habit? 

Anabel.  Not  a  habit.  But  I've  been  twice  since  I 
saw  you  last. 

Oliver.  I  see.  And  that's  nearly  two  years  ago. 
It's  an  annual  thing,  like  a  birthday? 

Anabel.     No.    I'll  go  on,  then. 

Oliver.     You'll  be  late  now. 

Anabel.     Shall  I?    It  doesn't  matter. 

Oliver.     We  are  going  to  see  you  again,  aren't  we? 

Anabel  (after  a  pause).    Yes,  I  hope  so,  Oliver. 

Oliver.  How  have  you  been  these  two  years — well? 
—happy? 

Anabel.     No,  neither.     How  have  you? 

Oliver.     Yes,  fairly  happy.    Have  you  been  ill? 

Anabel.     Yes,  in  France  I  was  very  ill. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  23 

Oliver.     Your  old  neuritis? 

Anabel.  No.  My  chest.  Pneumonia — oh,  a  compli- 
cation. 

Oliver.  How  sickening !  Who  looked  after  you  ?  Is 
it  better? 

Anabel.     Yes,  it's  a  great  deal  better. 

Oliver.  And  what  are  you  doing  in  England — 
working  ? 

Anabel.  No,  not  much. — I  won't  keep  the  car  here: 
good-bye. 

Gerald.     Oh,  it 's  all  right. 

Oliver.  But,  Anabel — we  must  fix  a  meeting.  I  say, 
wait  just  a  moment.  Could  I  call  on  your  people?  Go 
into  town  with  me  one  day.  I  don't  know  whether 
Gerald  intends  to  see  you — whether  he  intends  to  ask 
you  to  Lilley  Close. 

Gerald.     I 

Anabel.     He's  no  need.    I'm  fixed  up  there  already. 

Gerald.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Anabel.  I  am  at  Lilley  Close  every  day — or  most 
days — to  work  with  your  sister  Winifred  in  the  studio. 

Gerald.     What? — why,  how's  that? 

Anabel.  Your  father  asked  me.  My  father  was  al- 
ready giving  her  some  lessons. 

Gerald.     And  you're  at  our  house  every  day? 

Anabel.     Most  days. 

Gerald.  Well,  I'm — well,  I'll  be — you  managed  it 
very  sharp,  didn't  you?  I've  only  been  away  a  fort- 
night. 

Anabel.  Your  father  asked  me — he  offered  me  twelve 
pounds  a  month — I  wanted  to  do  something. 

Gerald.     Oh  yes,  but  you  didn't  hire  yourself  out  at 


24  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Lilley  Close  as  a  sort  of  upper  servant  just  for  twelve 
pounds  a  month. 

An  ABEL.  You're  ^vrong — you're  wrong.  I'm  not  a 
sort  of  upper  servant  at  all — not  at  all. 

Gerald.  Oh,  yes,  you  are,  if  you're  paid  twelve 
pounds  a  month — three  pounds  a  week.  That's  about 
what  father's  sick-nurse  gets,  I  believe.  You're  a  kind 
of  upper  servant,  like  a  nurse.  You  don't  do  it  for 
twelve  pounds  a  month.  You  can  make  twelve  pounds 
in  a  day,  if  you  like  to  work  at  your  little  models:  I 
know  you  can  sell  your  statuette  things  as  soon  as  you 
make  them. 

Anabel.  But  I  can^t  make  them.  I  can*t  make  them. 
I've  lost  the  spirit — the  joie  de  vivre — I  don't  know 
what,  since  I've  been  ill.  I  tell  you  I've  got  to  earn 
something. 

Gerald.  Nevertheless,  you  won't  make  me  believe, 
Anabel,  that  you've  come  and  buried  yourself  in  the 
provinces — sucli  provinces — ^just  to  earn  father's  three 
pounds  a  week.  Why  don't  you  admit  it,  that  you  came 
back  to  try  and  take  up  the  old  threads? 

Oliver.  Why  not,  Gerald?  Don't  you  think  we 
ought  to  take  up  the  old  threads? 

Gerald.  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  be  left  without 
choice.  I  don't  think  Anabel  ought  to  come  back  and 
thrust  herself  on  me — for  that's  what  it  amounts  to, 
after  all — when  one  remembers  what's  gone  before. 

Anabel.  I  don't  thrust  myself  on  you  at  all.  I 
know  I'm  a  fool,  a  fool,  to  come  back.  But  I  wanted  to. 
I  wanted  to  see  you  again.  Now  I  know  I  've  presumed. 
I  've  made  myself  clieap  to  you.  I  wanted  to — I  wanted 
to.    And  now  I've  done  it,  I  won't  come  to  Lilley  Close 


TOUCH  AND  GO  25 

again,  nor  anywhere  where  you  are.  Tell  your  father 
I  have  gone  to  France  again — it  will  be  true. 

Gerald.  You  play  tricks  on  me — and  on  yourself.- 
You  know  you  do.  You  do  it  for  the  pure  enjoyment 
of  it.  You  're  making  a  scene  here  in  this  filthy  market- 
place, just  for  the  fun  of  it.  You  like  to  see  these 
accursed  colliers  standing  eyeing  you,  and  squatting  on 
their  heels.  You  like  to  catch  me  out,  here  where  I'm 
known,  where  I've  been  the  object  of  their  eyes  since 
I  was  born.  This  is  a  great  coup  de  main  for  you.  I 
knew  it  the  moment  I  saw  you  here. 

Oliver.  After  all,  we  are  making  a  scene  in  the 
market-place.  Get  in,  Anabel,  and  we'll  settle  the  dis- 
pute more  privately.  I'm  glad  you  came  back,  anyhow. 
I'm  glad  you  came  right  down  on  us.  Get  in,  and  let 
us  run  do-wn  to  Whatmore. 

Anabel.  No,  Oliver.  I  don't  want  to  run  down  to 
Whatmore.  I  wanted  to  see  you — I  wanted  to  see 
Gerald — and  I  've  seen  him — and  I  've  heard  him.  That 
will  suffice  me.  We'll  make  an  end  of  the  scene  in  the 
market-place.    (She  turns  away.) 

Oliver.  I  knew  it  wasn't  ended.  I  knew  she  would 
come  back  and  tell  us  she'd  come.  But  she's  done  her 
bit — now  she'll  go  again.  My  God,  what  a  fool  of  a 
world! — You  go  on,  Gerald — I'll  just  go  after  her  and 
see  it  out.     (Calls.]    One  moment,  Anabel. 

Anabel  (calling).     Don't  come,  Oliver.     (Turns.) 

Gerald.  Anabel !  (Blows  the  horn  of  the  motor  car 
violently  and  agitatedly — she  looks  round — turns  again 
as  if  frightened.)  God  damn  the  woman!  (Gets  down 
from  the  car.)    Drive  home  for  me,  Oliver. 

(Curtain.) 


26  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Scene  II 

Winifred's  studio  at  Lilley  Close.     Anabel  and 
Winifred  working  at  a  model  in  clay. 

Winifred.  But  isn't  it  lovely  to  be  in  Paris,  and 
to  have  exhibitions,  and  to  be  famous? 

Anabel.  Paris  ivas  a  good  place.  But  I  was  never 
famous. 

Winifred.  But  your  little  animals  and  birds  were 
famous.  Jack  said  so.  You  know  he  brought  us  that 
bronze  thrush  that  is  singing,  that  is  in  his  room.  He 
has  only  let  me  see  it  twice.  It's  the  loveliest  thing  I've 
ever  seen.  Oh,  if  I  can  do  anything  like  that! — I've 
worshipped  it,  I  have.    It  is  your  best  thing? 

Anabel.    One  of  the  best. 

Winifred.  It  must  be.  When  I  see  it,  with  its  beak 
lifted,  singing,  something  comes  loose  in  my  heart,  and 
I  feel  as  if  I  should  cry,  and  fly  up  to  heaven.  Do  you 
know  what  I  mean  ?  Oh,  I  'm  sure  you  do,  or  you  could 
never  have  made  that  thrush.  Father  is  so  glad  you've 
come  to  show  me  how  to  work.  He  says  now  I  shall 
have  a  life-work,  and  I  shall  be  happy.     It's  true,  too. 

Anabel.     Yes,  till  the  life-work  collapses. 

Winifred.  Oh,  it  can't  collapse.  I  can't  believe  it 
could  collapse.  Do  tell  me  about  something  else  you 
made,  which  you  loved — something  you  sculpted.  Oh, 
it  makes  my  heart  burn  to  hear  you! — Do  you  think 
I  might  call  you  Anabel?  I  should  love  to.  You  do 
call  me  Winifred  already. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  27 

Anabel.     Yes,  do. 

Winifred.  Won't  you  tell  me  about  something  else 
you  made — something  lovely? 

Anabel.  Well,  I  did  a  small  kitten — asleep — with 
its  paws  crossed.  You  know,  Winifred,  that  wonderful 
look  that  kittens  have,  as  if  they  were  blown  along  like 
a  bit  of  fluff — as  if  they  weighed  nothing  at  all,  just 

wafted  about — and  yet  so  alive — do  you  know ? 

Winifred.     Darlings — darlings — I  love  them! 
Anabel.     Well,  my  kitten  really  came  off— it  had  that 
quality.    It  looked  as  if  it  had  just  wafted  there. 

Winifred.  Oh,  yes! — oh,  I  know!  And  was  it  in 
clay? 

Anabel.  I  cut  it  in  soft  grey  stone  as  well.  I  loved 
my  kitten.  An  Armenian  bought  her. 
Winifred.  And  where  is  she  now? 
Anabel.  I  don't  know — in  Armenia,  I  suppose,  if 
there  is  such  a  place.  It  would  have  to  be  kept  under 
glass,  because  the  stone  wouldn't  polish — and  I  didn't 
want  it  polished.  But  I  dislike  things  under  glass — 
don't  you? 

Winifred.  Yes,  I  do.  We  had  a  golden  clock,  but 
Gerald  wouldn't  have  the  glass  cover,  and  Daddy 
wouldn  't  have  it  without.  So  now  the  clock  is  in  father 's 
room.  Gerald  often  went  to  Paris.  Oliver  used  to  have 
a  studio  there.  I  don't  care  much  for  painting — do 
you? 

Anabel.  No.  I  want  something  I  can  touch,  if  it's 
something  outside  me. 

Winifred.  Yes,  isn't  it  wonderful,  when  things  are 
substantial.  Gerald  and  Oliver  came  back  yesterday 
from  Yorkshire.    You  know  we  have  a  colliery  there. 


28  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Anabel.     Yes,  I  believe  I've  heard. 

Winifred.  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  Gerald,  to  see 
if  you  like  him.  He 's  good  at  the  bottom,  but  he 's  very 
overbearing  and  definite. 

Anabel.     Is  he? 

Winifred.  Terribly  clever  in  business.  He'll  get 
awfully  rich. 

Anabel.     Isn't  he  rich  enough  already? 

Winifred.  Oh,  yes,  because  Daddy  is  rich  enough, 
really.  I  think  if  Gerald  was  a  bit  different,  he'd  be 
really  nice.  Now  he's  so  managing.  It's  sickening. 
Do  you  dislike  managing  people,  Anabel? 

Anabel.     I   dislike  them  extremely,  Winifred. 

Winifred.     They're  such  a  bore. 

Anabel.     What  does  Gerald  manage? 

Winifred.  Everything.  You  know  he's  revolution- 
ised the  collieries  and  the  whole  Company.  He's  made 
a  whole  new  thing  of  it,  so  modern.  Father  says  he 
almost  wishes  he'd  let  it  die  out — let  the  pits  be  closed. 
But  I  suppose  things  must  be  modernised,  don't  you 
think?    Though  it's  very  unpeaceful,  you  know,  really. 

Anabel.     Decidedly  unpeaceful,  I  should  say. 

Winifred.  The  colliers  work  awfully  hard.  The  pits 
are  quite  wonderful  now.  Father  says  it's  against  na- 
ture— all  this  electricity  and  so  on.  Gerald  adores  elec- 
tricity.   Isn't  it  curious? 

Anabel.     Very.     How  are  you  getting  on? 

Winifred.  I  don 't  know.  It 's  so  hard  to  make  things 
balance  as  if  they  were  alive.  Where  is  the  balance  in  a 
thing  that 's  afive  ? 

Anabel.  The  poise?  Yes,  Winifred — to  me,  all  the 
secret  of  life  is  in  that — just  the — the  inexpressible  poise 


TOUCH  AND  GO  29 

of  a  living  thing,  that  makes  it  so  different  from  a  dead 
thing.  To  me  it's  the  soul,  you  know — all  living  things 
have  it — flowers,  trees  as  w^ell.  It  makes  life  always 
marvellous. 

Winifred.  Ah,  yes! — ah,  yes!  If  only  I  could  put 
it  in  my  model. 

Anabel.  I  think  you  will.  You  are  a  sculptor,  Wini- 
fred.— Isn't  there  someone  there? 

Winifred  (running  to  tJie  door).    Oh,  Oliver! 

Oliver.  Hello,  Winnie!  Can  I  come  in?  This  is 
your  sanctum :  you  can  keep  us  out  if  you  like. 

Winifred.  Oh,  no.  Do  you  know  Miss  Wrath,  Oli- 
ver?   She's  a  famous  sculptress. 

Oliver.  Is  she?  We  have  met. — Is  Winifred  going 
to  make  a  sculptress,  do  you  think? 

Anabel.     I  do. 

Oliver.  Good !  I  like  your  studio,  Winnie.  Awfully 
nice  up  here  over  the  out-buildings.  Are  you  happy 
in  it? 

Winifred.  Yes,  I'm  perfectly  happy — only  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  make  real  models,  Oliver — it's  so  dif- 
ficult. 

Oliver.  Fine  room  for  a  party — Give  us  a  studio 
party  one  day,  Win,  and  we'll  dance. 

Winifred  (flijing  to  Mm).  Yes,  Oliver,  do  let  us 
dance.    What  shall  we  dance  to? 

Oliver.  Dance? — Dance  Vigni-vignons — we  all  know 
that.    Ready? 

Winifred.    Yes. 

(They  begin  to  sing,  dancing  meanivJiile,  in  a  free  little 
ballet-manner,  a  wine-dance,  dancing  separate  and 
tlien  togetJier.) 


30  TOUCH  AND  GO 

De  terre  en  vigne, 
La  voila  la  jolie  vigne, 
Vigni-vignons — vignons  le  vin, 
La  voila  la  jolie  vigne  au  vin, 
La  voila  la  jolie  vigne. 

Oliver.     Join  in — join  in,  alL 

(^Anabel  joins  in;  tJie  tliree  dance  and  move  in  rJiytJim.) 
Winifred.     I  love  it — I  love  it !    Do  Ma  capote  a  trois 
houtons — you  know  it,  don't  you,  Anabel?     Ready — 
now 

(TJiey  begin  to  dance  to  a  quick  little  marcJi-rJiytJim, 
all  singing  and  dancing  till  tJiey  are  out  of  breath.) 

Oliver.     Oh! — tired! — let  us  sit  down. 

Winifred.     Oliver! — oh,    Oliver! — I    love    you    and 
Anabel. 

Oliver.     Oh,  Winifred,  I  brought  you  a  present — 
you'll  love  me  more  now. 

Winifred.     Yes,  I  shall.     Do  give  it  me. 

Oliver.     I  left  it  in  the  morning-room.     I  put  it  on 
the  mantel-piece  for  you. 

Winifred.     Shall  I  go  for  it  ? 

Oliver.     There  it  is,  if  you  want  it. 

Winifred.     Yes — do  you  mind?    I  won't  be  long. 

(Exit.) 

Oliver.     She's  a  nice  child. 

Anabel.     A  very  nice  child. 

Oliver.     Why  did  you  come  back,  Anabel? 

Anabel.     Why  does  the  moon  rise,  Oliver? 


TOUCH  AND  GO  31 

Oliver.    For  some  mischief  or  other,  so  they  say. 

Anabel.     You  think  I  came  back  for  mischief 's  sake  ? 

Oliver.     Did  you? 

Anabel.     No. 

Oliver.     Ah ! 

Anabel.  Tell  me,  Oliver,  how  is  everything  now? — 
how  is  it  with  you? — how  is  it  between  us  all? 

Oliver.  How  is  it  between  us  all? — How  isn*t  it,  is 
more  the  mark. 

Anabel.     Why  ? 

Oliver.     You  made  a  fool  of  us. 

Anabel.     Of  whom  ? 

Oliver.     Well — of  Gerald  particularly — and  of  me. 

Anabel.     How  did  I  make  a  fool  of  you,  Oliver? 

Oliver.     That  you  know  best,  Anabel. 

Anabel.  No,  I  don't  know.  Was  it  ever  right  be- 
tween Gerald  and  me,  all  the  three  years  we  knew  each 
other — we  were  together? 

Oliver.     Was  it  all  wrong? 

Anabel.  No,  not  all.  But  it  was  terrible.  It  was 
terrible,  Oliver.  You  don't  realise.  You  don't  realise 
how  awful  passion  can  be,  when  it  never  resolves,  when 
it  never  becomes  anything  else.    It  is  hate,  really. 

Oliver.  What  did  you  want  the  passion  to  resolve 
into? 

Anabel.  I  was  blinded — maddened.  Gerald  stung 
me  and  stung  me  till  I  was  mad.  I  left  him  for  reason 's 
sake,  for  sanity's  sake.  We  should  have  killed  one  an- 
other. 

Oliver.  You  stung  him,  too,  you  know — and  pretty 
badly,  at  the  last :  you  dehumanised  him. 

Anabel.     When?    When  I  left  him,  you  mean? 


32  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Oliver.  Yes,  when  you  went  away  with  that  Nor- 
wegian— playing  your  game  a  little  too  far. 

Anabel.  Yes,  I  knew  you  'd  blame  me.  I  knew  you  'd 
be  against  me.  But  don't  you  see,  Oliver,  you  helped  to 
make  it  impossible  for  us. 

Oliver.     Did  I  ?    I  didn  't  intend  to. 

Anabel.  Ha,  ha,  Oliver!  Your  good  intentions! 
They  are  too  good  to  bear  investigation,  my  friend.  Ah, 
but  for  your  good  and  friendly  intentions 

Oliver.     You  might  have  been  all  right? 

Anabel.  No,  no,  I  don't  mean  that.  But  we  were  a 
vicious  triangle,  Oliver — you  must  admit  it. 

Oliver.  You  mean  my  friendship  with  Gerald  went 
against  you? 

Anabel.  Yes.  And  your  friendship  with  me  went 
against  Gerald. 

Oliver.     So  I  am  the  devil  in  the  piece. 

Anabel.  You  see,  Oliver,  Gerald  loved  you  far  too 
well  ever  to  love  me  altogether.  He  loved  us  both.  But 
the  Gerald  that  loved  you  so  dearly,  old,  old  friends 
as  you  were,  and  trusted  you,  he  turned  a  terrible  face 
of  contempt  on  me.  You  don't  know,  Oliver,  the  cold 
edge  of  Gerald's  contempt  for  me — because  he  was  so 
secure  and  strong  in  his  old  friendship  with  you.  You 
don't  know  his  sneering  attitude  to  me  in  the  deepest 
things — because  he  shared  the  deepest  things  with  you. 
He  had  a  passion  for  me.    But  he  loved  you. 

Oliver.  Well,  he  doesn't  any  more.  We  went  apart 
after  you  had  gone.  The  friendship  has  become  almost 
casual. 

Anabel.     You  see  how  bitterly  you  speak. 

Oliver.     Yet  you  didn't  hate  me,  Anabel. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  33 

Anabel.  No,  Oliver — I  was  awfully  fond  of  you.  I 
trusted  you — and  I  trust  you  still.  You  see  I  knew  how 
fond  Gerald  was  of  you.  And  I  had  to  respect  this  feel- 
ing. So  I  had  to  be  aware  of  you :  I  Jiad  to  be  conscious 
of  you:  in  a  way,  I  had  to  love  you.  You  understand 
how  I  mean  ?  Not  with  the  same  fearful  love  with  which 
I  loved  Gerald.  You  seemed  to  me  warm  and  protecting 
— like  a  brother,  you  know — but  a  brother  one  loves. 

Oliver.     And  then  you  hated  me? 

Anabel.     Yes,  I  had  to  hate  you. 

Oliver.     And  you  hated  Gerald? 

Anabel.     Almost  to  madness — almost  to  madness. 

Oliver.  Then  you  went  away  with  that  Norwegian. 
What  of  him? 

Anabel.     What  of  him?    Well,  he's  dead. 

Oliver.     Ah!    That's  why  you  came  back? 

Anabel.  No,  no.  I  came  back  because  my  only  hope 
in  life  was  in  coming  back.  Baard  was  beautiful — and 
awful.  You  know  how  glisteningly  blond  he  was.  Oli- 
ver, have  you  ever  watched  the  polar  bears?  He  was 
cold  as  iron  when  it  is  so  cold  that  it  burns  you.  Cold- 
ness wasn't  negative  with  him.  It  was  positive — and 
awful  beyond  expression — like  the  aurora  borealis. 

Oliver.     I  wonder  you  ever  got  back. 

Anabel.  Yes,  so  do  I.  I  feel  as  if  I  'd  fallen  down  a 
fissure  in  the  ice.    Yet  I  have  come  back,  haven't  I? 

Oliver.  God  knows!  At  least,  Anabel,  we've  gone 
through  too  much  ever  to  start  the  old  game  again. 
There'll  be  no  more  sticky  love  between  us. 

Anabel.     No,  I  think  there  won't,  either. 

Oliver.     And  what  of  Gerald? 

Anabel.     I  don't  know.    What  do  you  think  of  him? 


34  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Oliver.  I  can't  think  any  more.  I  can  only  blindly 
go  from  day  to  day,  now. 

Anabel.  So  can  I.  Do  you  think  I  was  wrong  to 
come  back  ?    Do  you  think  I  wrong  Gerald  1 

Oli\ter.  No.  I'm  glad  you  came.  But  I  feel  I  can^t 
know  anything.    We  must  just  go  on. 

Anabel.  Sometimes  I  feel  I  ought  never  to  have 
come  to  Gerald  again — never — never — never. 

Oliver.  Just  left  the  gap? — Perhaps,  if  everything 
has  to  come  asunder.  But  I  think,  if  ever  there  is  to 
be  life — hope, — then  you  had  to  come  back.  I  always 
knew  it.  There  is  something  eternal  between  you  and 
him;  and  if  there  is  to  be  any  happiness,  it  depends  on 
that.  But  perhaps  there  is  to  he  no  more  happiness — 
for  our  part  of  the  world. 

Anabel  (after  a  pause).    Yet  I  feel  hope — don't  you? 

Oliver.     Yes,  sometimes. 

Anabel.  It  seemed  to  me,  especially  that  winter  in 
Norway, — I  can  hardly  express  it, — as  if  any  moment 
life  might  give  way  under  one,  like  thin  ice,  and  one 
would  be  more  than  dead.  And  then  I  knew  my  only 
hope  was  here — the  only  hope. 

Oliver.    Yes,  I  believe  it.    And  I  believe 

(Enter  Mrs.  Barlow.  J 

Mrs.  Barlow.     Oh,  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you,  Oliver. 

Oliver.     Shall  I  come  across? 

Mrs.  Barlow.  No,  not  now.  I  believe  father  is  com- 
ing here  with  Gerald. 

Oliver.     Is  he  going  to  walk  so  far? 

Mrs.  Barlow.  He  will  do  it. — I  suppose  you  know 
Oliver? 


TOUCH  AND  GO  35 

Anabel.     Yes,  we  have  met  before. 

Mrs.  Barlow  (to  Oliver j.  You  didn't  mention  it. 
Where  have  you  met  Miss  Wrath?  She's  been  about 
the  world,  I  believe. 

Anabel.  About  the  world  ? — no,  Mrs.  Barlow.  If  one 
happens  to  know  Paris  and  London 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Paris  and  London!  Well,  I  don't  say 
you  are  altogether  an  adventuress.  My  husband  seems 
very  pleased  with  you — for  Winifred's  sake,  I  suppose 
— and  he's  wrapped  up  in  Winifred. 

Anabel.     Winifred  is  an  artist. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  All  my  children  have  the  artist  in 
them.  They  get  it  from  my  family.  My  father  went 
mad  in  Rome.  My  family  is  born  with  a  black  fate — 
they  all  inherit  it. 

Oliver.  I  believe  one  is  master  of  one's  fate  some- 
times, Mrs.  Barlow.    There  are  moments  of  pure  choice. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Between  two  ways  to  the  same  end, 
no  doubt.    There's  no  changing  the  end. 

Oliver.     I  think  there  is. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Yes,  you  have  a  parvenu's  presump- 
tuousness  somewhere  about  you. 

Oliver.     Well,  better  than  a  blue-blooded  fatalism. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  The  fate  is  in  the  blood:  you  can't 
change  the  blood. 

(Enter  Winifred  J 

Winifred.  Oh,  thank  you,  Oliver,  for  the  wolf  and 
the  goat,  thank  you  so  much !— The  wolf  has  sprung  on 
the  goat.  Miss  Wrath,  and  has  her  by  the  throat. 

Anabel.    The  wolf? 


36  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Oliver.  It's  a  little  marble  group — Italian — in  hard 
marble. 

Winifred.  The  wolf — I  love  the  wolf — he  pounces  so 
beautifully.  His  backbone  is  so  terribly  fierce.  I  don't 
feel  a  bit  sorry  for  the  goat,  somehow. 

Oliver.  I  didn't.  She  is  too  much  like  the  wrong 
sort  of  clergyman. 

Winifred.  Yes — such  a  stiff,  long  face.  I  wish  he'd 
kill  her. 

Mrs.  Barlow.     There's  a  wish! 

Winifred.  Father  and  Gerald  are  coming.  That's 
them,  I  suppose. 

(Enter  Mr.  Barlow  and  Gerald,  j 

Mr.  Barlow.  Ah,  good  morning — good  morning — 
quite  a  little  gathering !    Ah 

Oliver.     The  steps  tire  you,  Mr.  Barlow. 

Mr.  Barlow.  A  little — a  little — thank  you. — Well, 
Miss  Wrath,  are  you  quite  comfortable  here? 

Anabel.     Very  comfortable,  thanks. 

Gerald.  It  was  clever  of  you,  father,  to  turn  this 
place  into  a  studio. 

Mr.  Barlow.  Yes,  Gerald.  You  make  the  worldly 
schemes,  and  I  the  homely.  Yes,  it's  a  delightful  place. 
I  shall  come  here  often  if  the  two  young  ladies  will 
allow  me. — By  the  way.  Miss  Wrath,  I  don't  know  if 
you  have  been  introduced  to  my  son  Gerald.  I  beg 
your  pardon.  Miss  Wrath,  Gerald — my  son.  Miss  Wrath. 
(TJiey  how.)  Well,  we  are  quite  a  gathering,  quite  a 
pleasant  little  gathering.  We  never  expected  anything 
so  delightful  a  month  ago,  did  we,  Winifred,  darling? 


TOUCH  AND  GO  37 

Winifred.  No,  daddy,  it's  much  nicer  than  expec- 
tations. 

Mr.  Barlow.  So  it  is,  dear — to  have  such  exceptional 
companionship  and  such  a  pleasant  retreat.  We  are 
very  happy  to  have  Miss  Wrath  with  us — very  happy. 

Gerald.  A  studio's  awfully  nice,  you  know;  it  is 
such  a  retreat.  A  newspaper  has  no  effect  in  it — falls 
quite  flat,  no  matter  what  the  headlines  are. 

Mr.  Barlow.  Quite  true,  Gerald,  dear.  It  is  a  sanc- 
tum the  world  cannot  invade — unlike  all  other  sanctu- 
aries, I  am  afraid. 

Gerald.  By  the  way,  Oliver — to  go  back  to  pro- 
fanities— the  colliers  really  are  coming  out  in  support 
of  the  poor,  ill-used  clerks. 

Mr.  Barlow.  No,  no,  Gerald — no,  no !  Don 't  be  such 
an  alarmist.  Let  us  leave  these  subjects  before  the  la- 
dies. No,  no:  the  clerks  will  have  their  increase  quite 
peacefully. 

Gerald.  Yes,  dear  father — but  they  can't  have  it 
peacefully  now.  We've  been  threatened  already  by  the 
colliers — we've  already  received  an  ultimatum. 

Mr.  Barlow.  Nonsense,  my  boy — nonsense!  Don't 
let  us  split  words.  You  won't  go  against  the  clerks  in 
such  a  small  matter.  Always  avoid  trouble  over  small 
matters.  Don't  make  bad  feeling — don't  make  bad 
blood. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  The  blood  is  already  rotten  in  this 
neighbourhood.  What  it  needs  is  letting  out.  We  need 
a  few  veins  opening,  or  we  shall  have  mortification  set- 
ting in.    The  blood  is  black. 

Mr.  Barlow.  We  won 't  accept  your  figure  of  speech 
literally,  dear.    No,  Gerald,  don't  go  to  war  over  trifles. 


38  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Gerald.  It's  just  over  trifles  that  one  must  make 
war,  father.  One  can  yield  gracefully  over  big  matters. 
But  to  be  bullied  over  trifles  is  a  sign  of  criminal  weak- 
ness. 

Mr.  Barlow.  Ah,  not  so,  not  so,  my  boy.  When  you 
are  as  old  as  I  am,  you  will  know  the  comparative  in- 
significance of  these  trifles. 

Gerald.  The  older  I  get,  father,  the  more  such  trifles 
stick  in  my  throat. 

Mr.  Barlow.  Ah,  it  is  an  increasingly  irritable  dis- 
position in  you,  my  child.  Nothing  costs  so  bitterly,  in 
the  end,  as  a  stubborn  pride. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Except  a  stubborn  humility — and  that 
will  cost  you  more.  Avoid  humility,  beware  of  stubborn 
humility :  it  degrades.  Hark,  Gerald — fight !  When  the 
occasion  comes,  fight !  If  it 's  one  against  five  thousand, 
fight!  Don't  give  them  your  heart  on  a  dish!  Never! 
If  they  want  to  eat  your  heart  out,  make  them  fight  for 
it,  and  then  give  it  them  poisoned  at  last,  poisoned  with 
your  own  blood. — ^What  do  you  say,  young  woman? 

Anabel.     Is  it  for  me  to  speak,  Mrs.  Barlow? 

Mrs.  Barlow.     Weren't  you  asked? 

Anabel.  Certainly  I  would  never  give  the  world  my 
heart  on  a  dish.  But  can't  there  ever  be  peace — real 
peace? 

Mrs.  Barlow.  No — ^not  while  there  is  devilish  en- 
mity. 

Mr.  Barlow.  You  are  wrong,  dear,  you  are  wrong. 
The  peace  can  come,  the  peace  that  passeth  all  under- 
standing. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  That  there  is  already  between  me  and 
Almighty  God.    I  am  at  peace  with  the  God  that  made 


TOUCH  AND  GO  39 

me,  and  made  me  proud.  With  men  who  humiliate  me 
I  am  at  war.  Between  me  and  the  shameful  humble 
there  is  war  to  the  end,  though  they  are  millions  and  I 
am  one.  I  hate  the  people.  Between  my  race  and  them 
there  is  war — between  them  and  me,  between  them  and 
my  children — for  ever  war,  for  ever  and  ever. 

Mr.  Barlow.  Ah,  Henrietta — you  have  said  all  this 
before. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  And  say  it  again.  Fight,  Gerald.  You 
have  my  blood  in  you,  thank  God.  Fight  for  it,  Gerald. 
Spend  it  as  if  it  were  costly,  Gerald,  drop  by  drop.  Let 
no  dogs  lap  it. — Look  at  your  father.  He  set  his  heart 
on  a  plate  at  the  door,  for  the  poorest  mongrel  to  eat 
up.  See  him  now,  wasted  and  crossed  out  like  a  mis- 
take— and  swear,  Gerald,  swear  to  be  true  to  my  blood 
in  you.  Never  lie  down  before  the  mob,  Gerald.  Fight 
it  and  stab  it,  and  die  fighting.  It's  a  lost  hope — ^but 
fight! 

Gerald.     Don't  say  these  things  here,  mother. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Yes,  I  will — I  will.  I'll  say  them  be- 
fore you,  and  the  child  Winifred — she  knows.  And  be- 
fore Oliver  and  the  young  woman — they  know,  too. 

Mr.  Barlow.  You  see,  dear,  you  can  never  under- 
stand that,  although  I  am  weak  and  wasted,  although  I 
may  be  crossed  out  from  the  world  like  a  mistake,  I  still 
have  peace  in  my  soul,  dear,  the  peace  that  passeth  all 
understanding. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  And  what  right  have  you  to  it?  All 
very  well  for  you  to  take  peace  with  you  into  the  other 
world.    What  do  you  leave  for  your  sons  to  inherit  ? 

Mr.  Barlow.  The  peace  of  God,  Henrietta,  if  there 
is  no  peace  among  men. 


40  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Then  why  did  you  have  children? 
Why  weren't  you  celibate?  They  have  to  live  among 
men.  If  they  have  no  place  among  men,  why  have  you 
put  them  there  ?  If  the  peace  of  God  is  no  more  than  the 
peace  of  death,  why  are  your  sons  born  of  you?  How 
can  you  have  peace  with  God,  if  you  leave  no  peace 
for  your  sons — no  peace,  no  pride,  no  place  on 
earth? 

Gerald.  Nay,  mother,  nay.  You  shall  never  blame 
father  on  my  behalf. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Don't  trouble — ^he  is  blameless — I,  a 
hulking,  half-demented  woman,  I  am  glad  when  you 
blame  me.  But  don 't  blame  me  when  I  tell  you  to  fight. 
Don't  do  that,  or  you  will  regret  it  when  you  must  die. 
Ah,  your  father  was  stiff  and  proud  enough  before  men 
of  better  rank  than  himself.  He  was  overbearing  enough 
with  his  equals  and  his  betters.  But  he  humbled  him- 
self before  the  poor,  he  made  me  ashamed.  He  must 
hear  it — he  must  hear  it !  Better  he  should  hear  it  than 
die  coddling  himself  with  peace.  His  humility,  and  my 
pride,  they  have  made  a  nice  ruin  of  each  other.  Yet 
he  is  the  man  I  wanted  to  marry — he  is  the  man  I  would 
marry  again.  But  never,  never  again  would  I  give 
way  before  his  goodness.  Gerald,  if  you  must  be  true 
to  your  father,  be  true  to  me  as  well.  Don't  set  me  down 
at  nothing  because  I  haven't  a  humble  case. 

Gerald.  No,  mother — no,  dear  mother.  You  see,  dear 
mother,  I  have  rather  a  job  between  the  two  halves  of 
myself.  When  you  come  to  have  the  wild  horses  in  your 
own  soul,  mother,  it  makes  it  difficult. 

Mrs.  Barlow.    Never  mind,  you'll  have  help. 

Gerald.    Thank  you  for  the  assurance,   darling. — 


TOUCH  AND  GO  41 

Father,  you  don't  mind  what  mother  says,  I  hope.  I 
believe  there's  some  truth  in  it — don't  you? 

Mr.  Barlow.     I  have  nothing  to  say. 

Winifred.  /  think  there's  some  truth  in  it,  daddy. 
You  were  always  worrying  about  those  horrid  colliers, 
and  they  didn't  care  a  bit  about  you.  And  they  ought 
to  have  cared  a  million  pounds. 

Mr.  Barlow.     You  don't  understand,  my  child. 

(Curtain.) 


ACT  II 

Scene:  Evening  of  the  same  day.  Drawing-room  at 
Lilley  Close.  Mr.  Barlow,  Gerald,  Winifred,  Ana- 
BEL,  Oliver  present.    Butler  pours  coffee. 

Mr.  Barlow.  And  you  are  quite  a  stranger  in  these 
parts,  Miss  Wrath  ? 

Anabel.     Practically.     But  I  was  born  at  Derby. 

Mr.  Barlow.  I  was  born  in  this  house — but  it  was  a 
different  affair  then :  my  father  was  a  farmer,  you  know. 
The  coal  has  brought  us  what  moderate  wealth  we  have. 
Of  course,  we  were  never  poor  or  needy — farmers,  sub- 
stantial farmers.  And  I  think  we  were  happier  so — 
yes. — Winnie,  dear,  hand  Miss  Wrath  the  sweets.  I 
hope  they're  good.  I  ordered  them  from  London  for 
you. — Oliver,  my  boy,  have  you  everything  you  like? 
That's  right. — It  gives  me  such  pleasure  to  see  a  little 
festive  gathering  in  this  room  again.  I  wish  Bertie  and 
Elinor  might  be  here.    What  time  is  it,  Gerald? 

Gerald.     A  quarter  to  nine,  father. 

]\Ir.  Barlow.  Not  late  yet.  I  can  sit  with  you  an- 
other half-hour.  I  am  feeling  better  to-day.  Winifred, 
sing  something  to  us. 

Winifred.     Something  jolly,  father? 

Mr.  Barlow.     Very  folly,  darling. 

Winifred.  I'll  sing  ''The  Lincolnshire  Poacher," 
shall  I? 

42 


TOUCH  AND  GO  43 

Mr.  Barlow.     Do,  darling,  and  we'll  all  join  in  the 
chorus. — Will  j^ou  join  in  the  chorus,  Miss  Wrath? 
Anabel.     I  will.    It  is  a  good  song. 
Mr.  Barlow.     Yes,  isn't  it! 
Winifred.    All  dance  for  the  chorus,  as  well  as  singing. 

{They  sing;  some  pirouette  a  little  for  the  chorus.) 

Mr.  Barlow.  Ah,  splendid!  Splendid!  There  is 
nothing  like  gaiety. 

Winifred.    I  do  love  to  dance  about.    I  know :  let  us 
do  a  little  ballet — four  of  us — oh,  do ! 
Gerald.    What  ballet,  Winifred? 
Winifred.     Any.     Eva  can  play  for  us.     She  plays 
well. 

Mr.  Barlow.  You  won't  disturb  your  mother?  Don't 
disturb  Eva  if  she  is  busy  with  your  mother.  (Exit 
Winifred.)  If  only  I  can  see  Winifred  happy,  my 
heart  is  at  rest :  if  only  I  can  hope  for  her  to  be  happy 
in  her  life. 

Gerald.  Oh,  Winnie's  all  right,  father — especially 
now  she  has  Miss  Wrath  to  initiate  her  into  the  mys- 
teries of  life  and  labour. 

Anabel.    Why  are  you  ironical  ? 

Mr.  Barlo\v.  Oh,  Miss  Wrath,  believe  me,  we  all  feel 
that — it  is  the  greatest  possible  pleasure  to  me  that  you 
have  come. 

Gerald.     I  wasn't  ironical,  I  assure  you. 
LIr.  Barlow.  No,  indeed — no,  indeed !   We  have  every 
belief  in  you. 

Anabel.    But  why  should  you  have? 

Mr.  Barlow.     Ah,  my  dear  child,  allow  us  the  credit 


44  TOUCH  AND  GO 

of  our  own  discernment.  And  don't  take  offence  at  my 
familiarity.  I  am  afraid  I  am  spoilt  since  I  am  an 
invalid. 

(Re-enter  Winifred,  with  EvA.j 

Mr.  Barlow.  Come,  Eva,  you  will  excuse  us  for 
upsetting  your  evening.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  play 
something  for  us  to  dance  to? 

Eva.     Yes,  sir.    What  shall  I  play? 

Winifred.  Mozart — I '11  find  you  the  piece.  Mozart's 
the  saddest  musician  in  the  world — ^but  he's  the  best  to 
dance  to. 

Mr.  Barlow.  Why,  how  is  it  you  are  such  a  con- 
noisseur in  sadness,  darling? 

Gerald.     She  isn't.     She's  a  flagrant  amateur. 

('Eva  plays;  tliey  dance  a  little  ballet.) 

Mr.  Barlow.  Charming — charming,  Miss  Wrath: — 
will  you  allow  me  to  say  Anahel,  we  shall  all  feel  so 
much  more  at  home?  Yes — thank  you — er — you  enter 
into  the  spirit  of  it  wonderfully,  Anabel,  dear.  The 
others  are  accustomed  to  play  together.  But  it  is  not 
so  easy  to  come  in  on  occasion  as  you  do. 

Gerald.  Oh,  Anabel's  a  genius! — I  beg  your  pardon, 
Miss  Wrath — familiarity  is  catching. 

Mr.  Barlow.  Gerald,  my  boy,  don't  forget  that  you 
are  virtually  host  here. 

Eva.     Did  you  want  any  more  music,  sir? 

Gerald.  No,  don't  stay,  Eva.  We  mustn't  tire 
father.  (Exit  Eva.; 


TOUCH  AND  GO  45 

Mr.  Barlow.  I  am  afraid,  Anabel,  you  will  have  a 
great  deal  to  excuse  in  us,  in  the  way  of  manners.  We 
have  never  been  a  formal  household.  But  you  have 
lived  in  the  world  of  artists:  you  will  understand,  I 
hope. 

Anabel.     Oh,  surely 

Mr.  Barlow.  Yes,  I  know.  We  have  been  a  tur- 
bulent family,  and  we  have  had  our  share  of  sorrow, 
even  more,  perhaps,  than  of  joys.  And  sorrow  makes 
one  indifferent  to  the  conventionalities  of  life. 

Gerald.  Excuse  me,  father :  do  you  mind  if  I  go  and 
write  a  letter  I  have  on  my  conscience? 

Mr.  Barlow.  No,  my  boy.  (Exit  Gerald.)  We  have 
had  our  share  of  sorrow  and  of  conflict,  Miss  Wrath,  as 
you  may  have  gathered. 

Anabel.     Yes — a  little. 

Mr.  Barlow.  The  mines  were  opened  when  my 
father  was  a  boy — the  first — and  I  was  born  late,  when 
he  was  nearly  fifty.  So  that  all  my  life  has  been  involved 
with  coal  and  colliers.  As  a  young  man,  I  was  gay  and 
thoughtless.  But  I  married  young,  and  we  lost  our  first 
child  through  a  terrible  accident.  Two  children  we 
have  lost  through  sudden  and  violent  death.  ("Winifred 
goes  out  unnoticed.)  It  made  me  reflect.  And  when 
I  came  to  reflect,  Anabel,  I  could  not  justify  my  position 
in  life.  If  I  believed  in  the  teachings  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment— which  I  did,  and  do — how  could  I  keep  two  or 
three  thousand  men  employed  and  underground  in  the 
mines,  at  a  wage,  let  us  say,  of  two  pounds  a  week, 
whilst  I  lived  in  this  comfortable  house,  and  took  some- 
thing like  two  thousand  pounds  a  year — let  us  name  any 


46  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Anabel.  Yes,  of  course.  But  is  it  money  that  really 
matters,  Mr.  Barlow? 

Mr.  Barlow.  My  dear,  if  you  are  a  working  man,  it 
matters.  When  I  went  into  the  homes  of  my  poor  fel- 
lows, when  they  were  ill  or  had  had  accidents — then  I 
knew  it  mattered.  I  knew  that  the  great  disparity  was 
wrong — even  as  we  are  taught  that  it  is  wrong. 

Anabel.  Yes,  I  believe  that  the  great  disparity  is  a 
mistake.  But  take  their  lives,  Mr.  Barlow.  Do  you 
think  they  would  live  more,  if  they  had  more  monej'-? 
Do  you  think  the  poor  live  less  than  the  rich? — is 
their  life  emptier? 

Mr.  Barlow.  Surely  their  lives  would  be  better, 
Anabel. 

Oliver.  All  our  lives  would  be  better,  if  we  hadn't 
to  hang  on  in  the  perpetual  tug-of-war,  like  two  donkeys 
pulling  at  one  carrot.  The  ghastly  tension  of  posses- 
sions, and  struggling  for  possession,  spoils  life  for 
everybody. 

Mr.  Barlow.  Yes,  I  know  now,  as  I  knew  then,  that 
it  was  wrong.  But  how  to  avoid  the  wrong?  If  I  gave 
away  the  whole  of  my  income,  it  would  merely  be  an 
arbitrary  dispensation  of  charity.  The  money  would 
still  be  mine  to  give,  and  those  that  received  it  would 
probably  only  be  weakened  instead  of  strengthened.  And 
then  my  ^vif e  was  accustomed  to  a  certain  way  of  living, 
a  certain  establishment.  Had  I  any  right  to  sacrifice 
her,  without  her  consent? 

Anabel.     Wliy,  no! 

Mr.  Barlow.  Again,  if  I  withdrew  from  the  Com- 
pany, if  I  retired  on  a  small  income,  I  knew  that  another 


TOUCH  AND  GO  47 

man  would  automatically  take  my  place,  and  make  it 
probably  harder  for  the  men. 

Anabel.  Of  course — while  the  system  stands,  if  one 
makes  self-sacrifice  one  only  panders  to  the  system,  makes 
it  fatter. 

Mr.  Barlow.  One  panders  to  the  system — one  pan- 
ders to  the  system.  And  so,  you  see,  the  problem  is  too 
much.  One  man  cannot  alter  or  affect  the  system;  he 
can  only  sacrifice  himself  to  it.  Which  is  the  worst  thing 
probably  that  he  can  do. 

Oliver.  Quite.  But  why  feel  guilty  for  the  system? 
— everybody  supports  it,  the  poor  as  much  as  the  rich. 
If  every  rich  man  withdrew  from  the  system,  the  work- 
ing classes  and  socialists  would  keep  it  going,  every 
man  in  the  hope  of  getting  rich  himself  at  last.  It's  the 
people  that  are  wrong.  They  want  the  system  much 
more  than  the  rich  do — because  they  are  much  more 
anxious  to  be  rich— never  having  been  rich,  poor 
devils. 

Mr.  Barlow.  Just  the  system.  So  I  decided  at  last 
that  the  best  way  was  to  give  every  private  help  that 
lay  in  my  power.  I  would  help  my  men  individually 
and  personally,  wherever  I  could.  Not  one  of  them 
came  to  me  and  went  away  unheard;  and  there  was 
no  distress  which  could  be  alleviated  that  I  did  not 
try  to  alleviate.  Yet  I  am  afraid  that  the  greatest  dis- 
tress I  never  heard  of,  the  most  distressed  never  came 
to  me.    They  hid  their  trouble. 

Anabel.     Yes,  the  decent  ones. 

Mr.  Barlow.  But  I  wished  to  help — it  was  my  duty. 
Still,  I  think  that,  on  the  whole,  we  were  a  comfortable 
and  happy  community.     Barlow  &  Walsall's  men  were 


48  TOUCH  AND  GO 

not  unhappy  in  those  days,  I  believe.  We  were  liberal ; 
the  men  lived. 

Oliver.  Yes,  that  is  true.  Even  twenty  years  ago 
the  place  was  still  jolly. 

Mr.  Barlow.  And  then,  when  Gerald  was  a  lad  of 
thirteen,  came  the  great  lock-out.  We  belonged  to  the 
Masters'  Federation — I  was  but  one  man  on  the  Board. 
We  had  to  abide  by  the  decision.  The  mines  were  closed 
till  the  men  would  accept  the  reduction. — Well,  that 
cut  my  life  across.  We  were  shutting  the  men  out  from 
work,  starving  their  families,  in  order  to  force  them  to 
accept  a  reduction.  It  may  be  the  condition  of  trade 
made  it  imperative.  But,  for  myself,  I  would  rather 
have  lost  everything. — Of  course,  we  did  what  we  could. 
Food  was  very  cheap — practically  given  away.  We  had 
open  kitchen  here.  And  it  was  mercifully  warm  sum- 
mer-time. Nevertheless,  there  was  privation  and  suffer- 
ing, and  trouble  and  bitterness.  We  had  the  redcoats 
down — even  to  guard  this  house.  And  from  this  win- 
dow I  saw  Whatmore  head-stocks  ablaze,  and  before  I 
could  get  to  the  spot  the  soldiers  had  shot  two  poor 
fellows.     They  were  not  killed,  thank  God 

Oliver.  Ah,  but  they  enjoyed  it — they  enjoyed  it 
immensely.  I  remember  what  grand  old  sporting  weeks 
they  were.  It  was  like  a  fox-hunt,  so  lively  and  gay — 
bands  and  tea-parties  and  excitement  everywhere,  pit- 
ponies  loose,  men  all  over  the  country-side 

Mr.  Barlow.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  suffering 
which  you  were  too  young  to  appreciate.  However, 
since  that  year  I  have  had  to  acknowledge  a  new  situa- 
tion— a  radical  if  unspoken  opposition  between  masters 
and  men.    Since  that  year  we  have  been  split  into  oppo- 


TOUCH  AND  GO  49 

site  camps.  Whatever  I  might  privately  feel,  I  was 
one  of  the  owners,  one  of  the  masters,  and  therefore  in 
the  opposite  camp.  To  my  men  I  was  an  oppressor,  a 
representative  of  injustice  and  greed.  Privately,  I  like 
to  think  that  even  to  this  day  they  bear  me  no  malice, 
that  they  have  some  lingering  regard  for  me.  But  the 
master  stands  before  the  human  being,  and  the  condition 
of  war  overrides  individuals — they  hate  the  master,  even 
whilst,  as  a  human  being,  he  would  be  their  friend.  I 
recognise  the  inevitable  justice.  It  is  the  price  one  has 
to  pay. 

Anabel.     Yes,  it  is  difficult — very. 

Mr.  Barlow.     Perhaps  I  weary  you  ? 

Anabel.     Oh,  no — no. 

Mr.  Barlow.  "Well — then  the  mines  began  to  pay 
badly.  The  seams  ran  thin  and  unprofitable,  work  was 
short.  Either  we  must  close  down  or  introduce  a  new 
system,  American  methods,  which  I  dislike  so  extremely. 
Now  it  really  became  a  case  of  men  working  against 
machines,  flesh  and  blood  working  against  iron,  for  a 
livelihood.  Still,  it  had  to  be  done — the  whole  system 
revolutionised.  Gerald  took  it  in  hand — and  now  I 
hardly  know  my  own  pits,  with  the  great  electric  plants 
and  strange  machinery,  and  the  new  coal-cutters — iron 
men,  as  the  colliers  call  them — everything  running  at 
top  speed,  utterly  dehumanised,  inhuman.  Well,  it  had 
to  be  done;  it  was  the  only  alternative  to  closing  down 
and  throwing  three  thousand  men  out  of  work.  And 
Gerald  has  done  it.  But  I  can't  bear  to  see  it.  The  men 
of  this  generation  are  not  like  my  men.  They  are  worn 
and  gloomy;  they  have  a  hollow  look  that  I  can't  bear 
to  see.    They  are  a  great  grief  to  me.    I  remember  my 


50  TOUCH  AND  GO 

men  even  twenty  years  ago — a  noisy,  lively,  careless  set, 
who  kept  the  place  ringing.  Now  it  is  too  quiet — too 
quiet.  There  is  something  wrong  in  the  quietness,  some- 
thing unnatural.  I  feel  it  is  unnatural ;  I  feel  afraid  of 
it.    And  I  cannot  help  feeling  guilty. 

Anabel.     Yes — I  understand.     It  terrifies  me. 

Mr.  Barlow.  Does  it? — does  it? — Yes. — And  as  my 
wife  says,  I  leave  it  all  to  Gerald — this  terrible  situation. 
But  I  appeal  to  God,  if  anything  in  my  power  could 
have  averted  it,  I  would  have  averted  it.  I  would  have 
made  any  sacrifice.  For  it  is  a  great  and  bitter  trouble 
to  me. 

Anabel.  Ah,  well,  in  death  there  is  no  industrial  sit- 
uation.    Something  must  be  different  there. 

Mr.  Barlow.     Yes — yes. 

Oliver.  And  you  see  sacrifice  isn't  the  slightest  use. 
If  only  people  would  be  sane  and  decent. 

Mr.  Barlow.  Yes,  indeed. — Would  you  be  so  good 
as  to  ring,  Oliver?    I  think  I  must  go  to  bed. 

Anabel.     Ah,  you  have  over-tired  yourself. 

Mr.  Barlow.  No,  my  dear — not  over-tired.  Excuse 
me  if  I  have  burdened  you  with  all  this.  It  relieves  me 
to  speak  of  it. 

Anabel.  I  realise  Jiow  terrible  it  is,  Mr.  Barlow — 
and  how  helpless  one  is. 

Mr.  Barlow.  Thank  you,  my  dear,  for  your  sym- 
pathy. 

Oliver.  If  the  people  for  one  minute  pulled  them- 
selves up  and  conquered  their  mania  for  money  and 
machine  excitement,  the  whole  thing  would  be  solved. — 
Would  you  like  me  to  find  Winnie  and  tell  her  to  say 
good  night  to  you? 


TOUCH  AND  GO  51 

Mr.  Barlow.  If  you  would  be  so  kind.  (Exit  Oli- 
ver.^ Can't  you  find  a  sweet  that  you  would  like,  my 
dear?    Won't  you  take  a  little  cherry  brandy? 

(Enter  Butler.  J 

Anabel.     Thank  you. 

William.     You  will  go  up,  sir? 

Mr.  Barlow.     Yes,  William. 

William.     You  are  tired  to-night,  sir. 

Mr.  Barlow.     It  has  come  over  me  just  now. 

William.  I  wish  you  went  up  before  you  became  so 
over-tired,  sir.    Would  you  like  nurse? 

Mr.  Barlow.  No,  I'll  go  with  you,  William.  Good- 
night, my  dear. 

Anabel.  Good  night,  Mr.  Barlow.  I  am  so  sorry  if 
you  are  over-tired. 

(Exit  Butler  and  Mr.  Barlow.    Anabel  takes  a 
drink  and  goes  to  the  fire.) 

(Enter  Gerald,  j 

Gerald.     Father  gone  up? 

Anabel.    Yes. 

Gerald.  I  thought  I  heard  him.  Has  he  been  talk- 
ing too  much? — Poor  father,  he  will  take  things  to 
heart. 

Anabel.     Tragic,  really. 

Gerald.  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is.  But  one  can  get  be- 
yond tragedy — beyond  the  state  of  feeling  tragical,  I 
mean.  Father  himself  is  tragical.  One  feels  he  is  mis- 
taken— and  yet  he  wouldn't  be  any  different,  and  be 


52  TOUCH  AND  GO 

himself,  I  suppose.  He's  sort  of  crucified  on  an  idea  of 
the  working  people.  It's  rather  horrible  when  he's  one's 
father. — However,  apart  from  tragedy,  how  do  you  like 
being  here,  in  this  house? 

Anabel.  I  like  the  house.  It's  rather  too  comfort- 
able. 

Gerald.     Yes.    But  how  do  you  like  being  here? 

Anabel.     How  do  you  like  my  being  in  your  home  ? 

Gerald.     Oh,  I  think  you're  very  decorative. 

Anabel.     More  decorative  than  comfortable? 

Gerald.  Perhaps.  But  perhaps  you  give  the  neces- 
sary finish  to  the  establishment. 

Anabel.     Like  the  correct  window-curtains? 

Gerald.  Yes,  something  like  that.  I  say,  why  did 
you  come,  Anabel?  Why  did  you  come  slap-bang  into 
the  middle  of  us? — It's  not  expostulation — I  want  to 
know. 

Anabel.     You  mean  you  want  to  be  told? 

Gerald.     Yes,  I  want  to  be  told. 

Anabel.  That's  rather  mean  of  you.  You  should 
savvy,  and  let  it  go  without  saying. 

Gerald.     Yes,  but  I  don't  savvy. 

Anabel.     Then  wait  till  you  do. 

Gerald.  No,  I  want  to  be  told.  There's  a  difference 
in  you,  Anabel,  that  puts  me  out,  rather.  You're  sort  of 
softer  and  sweeter — I  'm  not  sure  whether  it  isn  't  a  touch 
of  father  in  you.  There's  a  little  sanctified  smudge  on 
your  face.    Are  you  really  a  bit  sanctified? 

Anabel.  No,  not  sanctified.  It's  true  I  feel  differ- 
ent. I  feel  I  want  a  new  Avay  of  life — something  more 
dignified,  more  religious,  if  you  like — anyhow,  something 
positive. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  53 

Gerald.     Is  it  the  change  of  heart,  Anabel  ? 

Anabel.     Perhaps  it  is,  Gerald. 

Gerald.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  like  it.  Isn't  it  like  a 
berry  that  decides  to  get  very  sweet,  and  goes  soft  ? 

Anabel.     I  don't  think  so. 

Gerald.  Slightly  sanctimonious.  I  think  I  liked  you 
better  before.  I  don't  think  I  like  you  with  this  touch 
of  aureole.  People  seem  to  me  so  horribly  self-satisfied 
when  they  get  a  change  of  heart — they  take  such  a 
fearful  lot  of  credit  to  themselves  on  the  strength  of  it. 

Anabel.  I  don't  think  I  do. — Do  you  feel  no  differ- 
ent, Gerald? 

Gerald.  Radically,  I  can't  say  I  do.  I  feel  very 
much  more  mdifPerent. 

Anabel.     What  to? 

Gerald.     Everything. 

Anabel.     You're  still  angry — that's  what  it  is. 

Gerald.  Oh,  yes,  I  'm  angry.  But  that  is  part  of  my 
normal  state. 

Anabel.     Why  are  you  angry? 

Gerald.  Is  there  any  reason  why  I  shouldn't  be 
angry?  I'm  angry  because  you  treated  me — well,  so 
impudently,  really — clearing  out  and  leaving  one  to 
whistle  to  the  empty  walls. 

Anabel.  Don't  you  think  it  was  time  I  cleared  out, 
when  you  became  so  violent,  and  really  dangerous,  really 
like  a  madman? 

Gerald.  Time  or  not  time,  you  went — you  disap- 
peared and  left  us  high  and  dry — and  I  am  still  angry. 
— But  I'm  not  only  angry  about  that.  I'm  angry  with 
the  colliers,  with  Labour  for  its  low-down  impudence — 
and  I'm  angry  with  father  for  being  so  ill — and  I'm 


54  TOUCH  AND  GO 

angry  with  mother  for  looking  such  a  hopeless  thing- 
and  I  'm  angry  with  Oliver  because  he  thinks  so  much- 


Anabel.  And  what  are  you  angry  with  yourself 
for? 

Gerald.  I'm  angry  with  myself  for  being  myself — I 
always  was  that.    I  was  always  a  curse  to  myself. 

An  ABEL.     And  that's  why  you  curse  others  so  much? 

Gerald.  You  talk  as  if  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  your 
mouth. 

Anabel.  You  see,  Gerald,  there  has  to  be  a  change. 
You'll  have  to  change. 

Gerald.  Change  of  heart? — Well,  it  won't  be  to  get 
softer,  Anabel. 

Anabel.  You  needn't  be  softer.  But  you  can  be 
quieter,  more  sane  even.  There  ought  to  be  some  part 
of  you  that  can  be  quiet  and  apart  from  the  world,  some 
part  that  can  be  happy  and  gentle. 

Gerald.  Well,  there  isn't.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  able 
to  extricate  a  soft  sort  of  John  Halifax,  Gentleman,  out 
of  the  machine  I  'm  mixed  up  in,  and  keep  him  to  gladden 
the  connubial  hearth.  I'm  angry,  and  I'm  angry  right 
through,  and  I  'm  not  going  to  play  bo-peep  with  myself, 
pretending  I  'm  not. 

Anabel.  Nobody  asks  you  to.  But  is  there  no  part 
of  you  that  can  be  a  bit  gentle  and  peaceful  and  happy 
with  a  woman? 

Gerald.  No,  there  isn  't. — I  'm  not  going  to  smug  with 
you — no,  not  I.  You 're  smug  in  your  coming  back.  You 
feel  virtuous,  and  expect  me  to  rise  to  it.    I  won't. 

Anabel.     Then  I'd  better  have  stayed  away. 

Gerald.  If  you  want  me  to  virtuise  and  smug  with 
you,  you  had. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  55 

Anabel.     What  do  you  want,  then  ? 

Gerald.     I  don't  know.    I  know  I  don't  want  that. 

Anabel.     Oh,  very  well.     (Goes  to  the  piano;  begins 


to  play.) 


(Enter  Mrs.  Barlow.^ 


Gerald.     Hello,  mother!    Father  Jins  gone  to  bed. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Oh,  I  thought  he  was  down  here  talk- 
ing.   You  two  alone? 

Gerald.     With  the  piano  for  chaperone,  mother. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  That's  more  than  I  gave  you  credit 
for.    I  haven't  come  to  chaperone  you  either,  Gerald. 

Gerald.  Chaperone  me,  mother!  Do  you  think  I 
need  it? 

Mrs.  Barlow.  If  you  do,  you  won't  get  it.  I've  come 
too  late  to  be  of  any  use  in  that  way,  as  far  as  I  hear. 

Gerald.     What  have  you  heard,  mother? 

Mrs.  Barlow.  I  heard  Oliver  and  this  young  woman 
talking. 

Gerald.     Oh,  did  you?    When?    What  did  they  say? 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Something  about  married  in  the  sight 
of  heaven,  but  couldn't  keep  it  up  on  earth. 

Gerald.     I  don't  understand. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  That  you  and  this  young  woman  were 
married  in  the  sight  of  heaven,  or  through  eternity,  or 
something  similar,  but  that  you  couldn't  make  up  your 
minds  to  it  on  earth. 

Gerald.     Really!    That's  very  curious,  mother. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Very  common  occurrence,  I  be- 
lieve. 

Gerald.     Yes,  so  it  is.    But  I  don't  think  you  heard 


56  TOUCH  AND  GO 

quite  right,  dear.  There  seems  to  be  some  lingering 
uneasiness  in  heaven,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  We'd  quite 
made  up  our  minds  to  live  apart  on  earth.  But  where 
did  you  hear  this,  mother? 

Mrs.  Barlow.  I  heard  it  outside  the  studio  door  this 
morning. 

Gerald.  You  mean  you  happened  to  be  on  one  side 
of  the  door  while  Oliver  and  Anabel  were  talking  on 
the  other? 

Mrs.  Barlow.  You'd  make  a  detective,  Gerald — 
you're  so  good  at  putting  two  and  two  together.  I  lis- 
tened till  I'd  heard  as  much  as  I  wanted.  I'm  not  sure 
I  didn't  come  down  here  hoping  to  hear  another  conver- 
sation going  on. 

Gerald.     Listen  outside  the  door,  darling? 

Mrs.  Barlow.  There 'd  be  nothing  to  listen  to  if  I 
were  inside. 

Gerald.     It  isn't  usually  done,  you  know. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  I  listen  outside  doors  when  I  have  oc- 
casion to  be  interested — which  isn  't  often,  unfortunately 
for  me. 

Gerald.  But  I've  a  queer  feeling  that  you  have  a 
permanent  occasion  to  be  interested  in  me.  I  only  half 
like  it. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  It's  surprising  how  uninteresting  you 
are,  Gerald,  for  a  man  of  your  years.  I  have  not  had 
occasion  to  listen  outside  a  door,  for  you,  no,  not  for  a 
great  while,  believe  me. 

Gerald.  I  believe  you  implicitly,  darling.  But  do 
you  happen  to  know  me  through  and  through,  and  in 
and  out,  all  my  past  and  present  doings,  mother  ?  Have 
you  a  secret  access  to  my  room,  and  a  spy-hole,  and  all 


TOUCH  AND  GO  57 

those  things?     This   is  uncomfortably  thrilling.     You 
take  on  a  new  lustre. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Your  memoirs  wouldn't  make  you 
famous,  my  son. 

Gerald.     Infamous,  dear? 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Good  heavens,  no!  What  a  lot  you 
expect  from  your  very  mild  sins!  You  and  this  young 
woman  have  lived  together,  then? 

Gerald.  Don't  say  "this  young  woman,"  mother 
dear — it's  slightly  vulgar.  It  isn't  for  me  to  compromise 
Anabel  by  admitting  such  a  thing,  you  know. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Do  you  ask  me  to  call  her  Anabel? 
I  won't. 

Gerald.  Then  say  ' '  this  person, ' '  mother.  It 's  more 
becoming. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  I  didn't  come  to  speak  to  you,  Gerald. 
I  know  you.    I  came  to  speak  to  this  young  woman. 

Gerald.  ' '  Person, ' '  mother. — Will  you  curtsey,  Ana- 
bel? And  I'll  twist  my  handkerchief.  We  shall  make 
a  Cruikshank  drawing,  if  mother  makes  her  hair  a  little 
more  slovenl3\ 

Mrs.  Barlow.  You  and  Gerald  were  together  for 
some  time? 

Gerald.     Three  years,  off  and  on,  mother. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  And  then  you  suddenly  dropped  my 
son,  and  went  away? 

Gerald.     To  Norway,  mother — so  I  have  gathered. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  And  now  you  have  come  back  because 
that  last  one  died? 

Gerald.     Is  he  dead,  Anabel  ?    How  did  he  die  ? 

Anabel.     He  was  killed  on  the  ice. 

Gerald.    Oh,  God! 


58  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Now,  having  had  your  fill  of  tragedy, 
you  have  come  back  to  be  demure  and  to  marry  Gerald. 
Does  he  thank  you? 

Gerald.  You  must  listen  outside  the  door,  mother, 
to  find  that  out. 

Mrs.  Barlow.     Well,  it's  your  own  affair. 

Gerald.  What  a  lame  summing  up,  mother! — quite 
unworthy  of  you. 

Anabel.  What  did  you  wish  to  say  to  me,  Mrs.  Bar- 
low ?    Please  say  it. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  What  did  I  wish  to  say!  Ay,  what 
did  I  wish  to  say!  What  is  the  use  of  my  saying  any- 
thing ?  What  am  I  but  a  buffoon  and  a  slovenly  carica- 
ture in  the  family  ? 

Gerald.  No,  mother  dear,  don't  climb  down — please 
don't.    Tell  Anabel  what  you  wanted  to  say. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Yes — yes — yes.  I  came  to  say — don't 
be  good  to  my  son — don't  be  good  to  him. 

Gerald.     Sounds  weak,  dear — mere  contrariness. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Don't  presume  to  be  good  to  my  son, 
young  woman.  I  won't  have  it,  even  if  he  will.  You 
hear  me? 

Anabel.     Yes.    I  won't  presume,  then. 

Gerald.     May  she  presume  to  be  bad  to  me,  mother? 

Mrs.  Barlow.  For  that  you  may  look  after  yourself. 
— But  a  woman  who  was  good  to  him  would  ruin  him  in 
six  months,  take  the  manhood  out  of  him.  He  has  a 
tendency,  a  secret  hankering,  to  make  a  gift  of  himself 
to  somebody.  He  sha'n't  do  it.  I  warn  you.  I  am  not 
a  woman  to  be  despised. 

Anabel.     No — I  understand. 

Mrs.  Barlow.     Only  one  other  thing  I  ask.     If  he 


TOUCH  AND  GO  59 

must  fight — and  fight  he  must — let  him  alone:  don't  you 
try  to  shield  him  or  save  him.  Don't  interfere — do  you 
hear? 

Anabel.     Not  till  I  must. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Never.  Learn  your  place,  and  keep 
it.  Keep  away  from  him,  if  you  are  going  to  be  a  wife 
to  him.  Don 't  go  too  near.  And  don 't  let  him  come  too 
near.  Beat  him  off  if  he  tries.  Keep  a  solitude  in  your 
heart  even  when  you  love  him  best.  Keep  it.  If  you 
lose  it,  you  lose  everything. 

Gerald.     But  that  isn't  love,  mother. 

Mrs.  Barlow.     What? 

Gerald.     That  isn't  love. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Wliat?  What  do  you  know  of  love, 
you  ninny?  You  only  know  the  feeding-bottle.  It's 
what  you  want,  all  of  you — to  be  brought  up  by  hand, 
and  mew  about  love.  Ah,  God! — Ah,  God! — that  you 
should  none  of  you  know  the  only  thing  which  would 
make  you  worth  having. 

Gerald.  I  don't  believe  in  your  only  thing,  mother. 
But  what  is  it  ? 

Mrs.  Barlow.  What  you  haven't  got — the  power  to 
be  alone. 

Gerald.     Sort  of  megalomania,  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Barlow.  What?  Megalomania!  What  is  your 
love  but  a  megalomania,  flowing  over  everybody  and 
everything  like  spilt  water?  Megalomania!  I  hate  you, 
you  softy!  I  would  heat  you  (suddenly  advancing  on 
Jiim  and  heating  Mm  fiercely) — beat  you  into  some  man- 
hood— beat  you 

Gerald.     Stop,  mother — keep  off. 

Mrs.  Barlow.     It's  the  men  who  need  beating  nowa- 


60  TOUCH  AND  GO 

days,  not  the  children.     Beat  the  softness  out  of  Mm, 
young  woman.    It 's  the  only  way,  if  you  love  him  enough 
— if  you  love  him  enough. 
Gerald.     You  hear,  Anabel? 

Speak  roughly  to  your  little  boy, 
And  beat  him  when  he  sneezes. 

Mrs.  Barlow  (catching  up  a  large  old  fan,  and  smash- 
ing it  about  his  head).  You  softy — you  piffler — you  will 
never  have  had  enough!  Ah,  you  should  be  thrust  in 
the  fire,  you  should,  to  have  the  softness  and  the  brittle- 
ness  burnt  out  of  you ! 

(The  door  opens — Oliver  Turton  enters,  followed  by 
Job  Arthur  Freer.  Mrs.  Barlow  is  still  attacking 
Gerald.    She  turns,  infuriated.) 

Go  out!  Go  out!  "What  do  you  mean  by  coming  in 
unannounced  ?  Take  him  upstairs — take  that  fellow  into 
the  library,  Oliver  Turton. 

Gerald.  Mother,  you  improve  our  already  pretty 
reputation.    Already  they  say  you  are  mad. 

Mrs.  Barlow  (ringing  violently).  Let  me  be  mad 
then.  I  am  mad — driven  mad.  One  day  I  shall  kill 
you,  Gerald. 

Gerald.  You  won't,  mother,  because  I  sha'n't  let 
you. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Let  me ! — let  me !  As  if  I  should  wait 
for  you  to  let  me ! 

Gerald.  I  am  a  match  for  you  even  in  violence,  come 
to  that. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  61 

Mrs.  Barlow.  A  match!  A  damp  match.  A  wet 
match. 

(Enter  Butler,  j 

William.     You  rang,  madam? 

Mrs.  Barlow.  Clear  up  those  bits. — Where  are  you 
going  to  see  that  white-faced  fellow  ?    Here  ? 

Gerald.     I  think  so. 

Mrs.  Barlow.  You  will  still  have  them  coining  to 
the  house,  will  you?  You  will  still  let  them  trample  in 
our  private  rooms,  will  you?  Bah!  I  ought  to  leave 
you  to  your  own  devices.  (Exit.) 

Gerald.  When  youVe  done  that,  William,  ask  Mr. 
Freer  to  come  down  here. 

William.     Yes,  sir.  (A  pause.    Exit  William. j 

Gerald.  So — o — o.  You've  had  another  glimpse  of 
the  family  life. 

Anabel.     Yes.    Rather — disturbing. 

Gerald.  Not  at  all,  when  you're  used  to  it.  Mother 
isn't  as  mad  as  she  pretends  to  be. 

Anabel.  I  don't  think  she's  mad  at  all.  I  think  she 
has  most  desperate  courage. 

Gerald.  ''Courage"  is  good.  That's  a  new  term 
for  it. 

Anabel.  Yes,  courage.  When  a  man  says  ** courage" 
he  means  the  courage  to  die.  A  woman  means  the  cour- 
age to  live.  That's  what  women  hate  men  most  for, 
that  they  haven't  the  courage  to  live. 

Gerald.  Mother  takes  her  courage  into  both  hands 
rather  late. 

Anabel.     We're  a  little  late  ourselves. 


62  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Gerald.  We  are,  rather.  By  the  way,  you  seem  to 
have  had  plenty  of  the  courage  of  death — you've  played 
a  pretty  deathly  game,  it  seems  to  me — both  when  I  knew 
you  and  afterwards,  you've  had  your  finger  pretty  deep 
in  the  death-pie. 

Anabel.     That's  why  I  want  a  change  of — of 

Gerald.  Of  heart? — Better  take  mother's  tip,  and 
try  the  poker. 

Anabel.     I  will. 

Gerald.     Ha — corraggio ! 

Anabel.     Yes — corraggio ! 

Gerald.     Corraggiaccio ! 

Anabel.     Corraggione ! 

Gerald.     Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 

(Enter  Oliver  and  Freer. J 

Oh,  come  in.  Don't  be  afraid;  it's  a  charade.  (^Ana- 
bel rises.)  No,  don't  go,  Anabel.  Corraggio!  Take  a 
seat,  Mr.  Freer. 

Job  Arthur.  Sounds  like  a  sneezing  game,  doesn't 
it? 

Gerald.     It  is.    Do  you  know  the  famous  rhyme: 


Speak  roughly  to  your  little  boy, 
And  beat  him  when  he  sneezes? 


Job  Arthur.     No,  I  can't  say  I  do. 

Gerald.  My  mother  does.  Will  you  have  anything 
to  drink?    Will  you  help  yourself? 

Job  Arthur.  Well — no — I  don 't  think  I  '11  have  any- 
thing, thanks. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  63 

Gerald.  A  cherry  brandy?— Yes? — Anabel,  what's 
yours  ? 

Anabel.     Did  I  see  Kummel  ? 

Gerald.  You  did.  (Theij  all  take  drinks.)  What's 
the  latest,  Mr.  Freer? 

Job  Arthur.  The  latest?  Well,  I  don't  know,  I'm 
sure 

Gerald.     Oh,  yes.    Trot  it  out.    We're  quite  private. 

Job  Arthur.  Well — I  don't  know.  There's  several 
things. 

Gerald.     The  more  the  merrier. 

Job  Arthur.  I'm  not  so  sure.  The  men  are  in  a 
very  funny  temper,  Mr.  Barlow — very  funny. 

Gerald.  Coincidence — so  am  I.  Not  surprising,  is 
it? 

Job  Arthur.     The  men,  perhaps  not. 

Gerald.     What  else,  Job  Arthur? 

Job  Arthur.  You  know  the  men  have  decided  to 
stand  by  the  office  men? 

Gerald.     Yes. 

Job  Arthur.  They've  agreed  to  come  out  next  Mon- 
day. 

Gerald.     Have  they  ? 

Job  Arthur.  Yes;  there  was  no  stopping  them. 
They  decided  for  it  like  one  man. 

Gerald.     How  was  that  ? 

Job  Arthur.  That's  what  surprises  me.  They're  a 
jolly  sight  more  certain  over  this  than  they've  ever 
been  over  their  own  interests. 

Gerald.  All  their  love  for  the  office  clerks  coming 
out  in  a  rush? 


64  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Job  Arthur.  Well,  I  don't  know  about  love;  but 
that's  how  it  is. 

Gerald.     What  is  it,  if  it  isn't  love? 

Job  Arthur.  I  can't  say.  They're  in  a  funny  tem- 
per.   It's  hard  to  make  out. 

Gerald.  A  funny  temper,  are  they  ?  Then  I  suppose 
we  ought  to  laugh. 

Job  Arthur.  No,  I  don't  think  it's  a  laughing  mat- 
ter.    They're  coming  out  on  Monday  for  certain. 

Gerald.     Yes — so  are  daffodils. 

Job  Arthur.     Beg  pardon? 

Gerald.     Daffodils. 

Job  Arthur.     No,  I  don't  follow  what  you  mean. 

Gerald.  Don't  you?  But  I  thought  Alfred  Breffit 
and  William  Straw  were  not  very  popular. 

Job  Arthur.  No,  they  aren't — not  in  themselves. 
But  it's  the  principle  of  the  thing — so  it  seems. 

Gerald.     What  principle? 

Job  Arthur.  Why,  all  sticking  together,  for  one 
thing — all  Barlow  &  Walsall's  men  holding  by  one  an- 
other. 

Gerald.     United  we  stand? 

Job  Arthur.  That's  it.  And  then  it's  the  strong 
defending  the  weak  as  well.  There's  three  thousand 
colliers  standing  up  for  thirty-odd  office  men.  I  m.ust 
say  I  think  it's  sporting  myself. 

Gerald.  You  do,  do  you?  United  we  stand,  divided 
we  fall.    What  do  they  stand  for,  really?    What  is  it? 

Job  Arthur.  Well — for  their  right  to  a  living  wage. 
That's  how  I  see  it. 

Gerald.     For  their  right  to  a  living  wage !    Just  that  ? 

Job  Arthur.     Yes,  sir — that 's  how  I  see  it. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  65 

Gerald.  Well,  that  doesn't  seem  so  preposterously 
difficult,  does  it? 

Job  Arthur.  Why,  that's  what  I  think  myself,  Mr. 
Gerald.    It's  such  a  little  thing. 

Gerald.  Quite.  I  suppose  the  men  themselves  are 
to  judge  what  is  a  living  wage? 

Job  Arthur.  Oh,  I  think  they're  quite  reasonable, 
you  know. 

Gerald.  Oh,  yes,  eminently  reasonable.  Reason's 
their  strong  point. — And  if  they  get  their  increase 
they'll  be  quite  contented? 

Job  Arthur.     Yes,  as  far  as  I  know,  they  will. 

Gerald.  As  far  as  you  know?  Why,  is  there  some- 
thing you  don't  know? — something  you're  not  sure 
about  ? 

Job  Arthur.  No — I  don't  think  so.  I  think  they'll 
be  quite  satisfied  this  time. 

Gerald.  Why  this  time  ?  Is  there  going  to  be  a  next 
time — every-day-has-its-to-morrow  kind  of  thing? 

Job  Arthur.  I  don't  know  about  that.  It's  a  funny 
world,  Mr.  Barlow. 

Gerald.  Yes,  I  quite  believe  it.  How  do  you  see 
it  funny  ? 

Job  Arthur.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Everything's  in  a 
funny  state. 

Gerald.     What  do  you  mean  by  everything? 

Job  Arthur.  Well — I  mean  things  in  general- 
Labour,  for  example. 

Gerald.  You  think  Labour's  in  a  funny  state,  do 
you?  What  do  you  think  it  wants?  What  do  you 
think,  personally? 


66  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Job  Arthur.  Well,  in  my  own  mind,  I  think  it  wants 
a  bit  of  its  own  back. 

Gerald.     And  how  does  it  mean  to  get  it? 

Job  Arthur.  Ha!  that's  not  so  easy  to  say.  But  it 
means  to  have  it,  in  the  long  run. 

Gerald.  You  mean  by  increasing  demands  for 
higher  wages? 

Job  Arthur.     Yes,  perhaps  that's  one  road. 

Gerald.     Do  you  see  any  other? 

Job  Arthur.     Not  just  for  the  present. 

Gerald.     But  later  on? 

Job  Arthur.  I  can't  say  about  that.  The  men  will 
be  quiet  enough  for  a  bit,  if  it 's  all  right  about  the  office 
men,  you  know. 

Gerald.  Probably.  But  have  Barlow  &  Walsall's 
men  anj^  special  grievance  apart  from  the  rest  of  the 
miners  ? 

Job  Arthur.  I  don't  know.  They've  no  liking  for 
you,  you  know,  sir. 

Gerald.     Why  ? 

Job  Arthur.     They  think  you've  got  a  down  on  them. 

Gerald.     Why  should  they? 

Job  Arthur.     I  don't  know,  sir;  but  they  do. 

Gerald.  So  they  have  a  personal  feeling  against  me? 
You  don't  think  all  the  colliers  are  the  same,  all  over 
the  country  ? 

Job  Arthur.  I  think  there's  a  good  deal  of  feel- 
ing  

Gerald.     Of  wanting  their  own  back? 

Job  Arthur.     That's  it. 

Gerald.  But  what  can  they  do?  I  don't  see  what 
they  can  do.     They  can  go  out  on  strike — ^but  they've 


TOUCH  AND  GO  67 

done  that  before,  and  the  owners,  at  a  pinch,  can  stand 
it  better  than  they  can.  As  for  the  ruin  of  the  industry, 
if  they  do  ruin  it,  it  falls  heaviest  on  them.  In  fact,  it 
leaves  them  destitute.  There 's  nothing  they  can  do,  you 
know,  that  doesn't  hit  them  worse  than  it  hits  us. 

Job  Arthur.  I  know  there's  something  in  that.  But 
if  they  had  a  strong  man  to  lead  them,  you  see 

Gerald.  Yes,  I've  heard  a  lot  about  that  strong  man 
— but  I  've  never  come  across  any  signs  of  him,  you  know. 
I  don't  believe  in  one  strong  man  appearing  out  of  so 
many  little  men.  All  men  are  pretty  big  in  an  age,  or 
in  a  movement,  which  produces  a  really  big  man.  And 
Labour  is  a  great  swarm  of  hopelessly  little  men.  That 's 
how  I  see  it. 

Job  Arthur.     I  'm  not  so  sure  about  that. 

Gerald.  I  am.  Labour  is  a  thing  that  can't  have 
a  head.  It's  a  sort  of  unwieldy  monster  that's  bound 
to  run  its  skull  against  the  wall  sooner  or  later,  and 
knock  out  what  bit  of  brain  it's  got.  You  see,  you  need 
wit  and  courage  and  real  understanding  if  you're  going 
to  do  anything  positive.  And  Labour  has  none  of  these 
things — certainly  it  shows  no  signs  of  them. 

Job  Arthur.  Yes,  when  it  has  a  chance,  I  think 
you'll  see  plenty  of  courage  and  plenty  of  under- 
standing. 

Gerald.  It  always  had  a  chance.  And  where  one 
sees  a  bit  of  courage,  there's  no  understanding;  and 
where  there's  some  understanding,  there's  absolutely  no 
courage.  It's  hopeless,  you  know — it  would  be  far  best 
if  they'd  all  give  it  up,  and  try  a  new  line. 

Job  Arthur.     I  don't  think  they  will. 

Gerald.    No,  I  don't,  either.    They'll  make  a  mess. 


68  TOUCH  AND  GO 

and  when  they've  made  it,  they'll  never  get  out  of  it. 
They  can't — they're  too  stupid. 

Job  Arthur.     They  've  never  had  a  try  yet. 

Gerald.  They're  trying  every  day.  They  just 
simply  couldn't  control  modern  industry — they  haven't 
the  intelligence.  They've  no  life  intelligence.  The 
owners  may  have  little  enough,  but  Labour  has  none. 
They're  just  mechanical  little  things  that  can  make  one 
or  two  motions,  and  they  're  done.  They  've  no  more  idea 
of  life  than  a  lawn-mower  has. 

Job  Arthur.     It  remains  to  be  seen. 

Gerald.  No,  it  doesn't.  It's  perfectly  obvious — 
there's  nothing  remains  to  be  seen.  All  that  Labour  is 
capable  of,  is  smashing  things  up.  And  even  for  that 
I  don't  believe  it  has  either  the  energy  or  the  courage 
or  the  bit  of  necessary  passion,  or  slap-dash — call  it 
whatever  you  will.     However,  we'll  see. 

Job  Arthur.  Yes,  sir.  Perhaps  you  see  now  why 
you're  not  so  very  popular,  Mr.  Gerald, 

Gerald.  We  can't  all  be  popular.  Job  Arthur. 
You're  very  high  up  in  popularity,  I  believe. 

Job  Arthur.  Not  so  very.  They  listen  to  me  a  bit. 
But  you  never  know  when  they'll  let  you  down.  I  know 
they'll  let  me  down  one  day — so  it  won't  be  a  surprise. 

Gerald.     I  should  think  not. 

Job  Arthur.  But  about  the  office  men,  Mr.  Gerald. 
You  think  it'll  be  all  right? 

Gerald.     Oh,  yes,  that'll  be  all  right. 

Job  Arthur.  Easiest  for  this  time,  anyhow,  sir.  We 
don't  want  bloodshed,  do  we? 

Gerald.  I  shouldn't  mind  at  all.  It  might  clear  the 
way  to  something.     But  I  have  absolutely  no  belief  in 


TOUCH  AND  GO  69 

the  power  of  Labour  even  to  bring  about  anything  so 
positive  as  bloodshed. 

Job  Arthur.  I  don 't  know  about  that — I  don 't  know. 
Well. 

Gerald.  Have  another  drink  before  you  go. — Yes, 
do.    Help  yourself. 

Job  Arthur.  Well — if  you're  so  pressing.  (Helps 
Jmnself.)    Here's  luck,  all! 

All.     Thanks. 

Gerald.  Take  a  cigar — there's  the  box.  Go  on — 
take  a  handful — fill  your  case. 

Job  Arthur.  They're  a  great  luxury  nowadays, 
aren't  they?    Almost  bej^ond  a  man  like  me. 

Gerald.  Yes,  that's  the  worst  of  not  being  a  bloated 
capitalist.  Never  mind,  you'll  be  a  Cabinet  Minister 
some  day. — Oh,  all  right — I  '11  open  the  door  for  you. 

Job  Arthur.  Oh,  don't  trouble.  Good  night — good 
night.  (Exeunt.) 

Oliver.     Oh,  God,  what  a  world  to  live  in! 

Anabel.     I  rather  liked  him.    What  is  he? 

Oliver.  Checkweighman — local  secretary  for  the 
Miners'  Federation — plays  the  violin  well,  although  he 
was  a  collier,  and  it  spoilt  his  hands.  They're  a  musical 
family. 

Anabel.     But  isn't  he  rather  nice? 

Oliver.  I  don 't  like  him.  But  I  confess  he 's  a  study. 
He's  the  modern  Judas. 

Anabel.     Don't  you  think  he  likes  Gerald? 

Oliver.  I'm  sure  he  does.  The  way  he  suns  himself 
here — like  a  cat  purring  in  his  luxuriation. 

Anabel.  Yes — I  don't  mind  it.  It  shows  a  certain 
sensitiveness  and  a  certain  taste. 


70  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Oliver.  Yes,  he  has  both — touch  of  the  artist,  as 
Mrs.  Barlow  says.  He  loves  refinement,  culture,  breed- 
ing, all  those  things — ^loves  them — and  a  presence,  a  fine 
free  manner. 

Anabel.    But  that  is  nice  in  him. 

Oliver.  Quite.  But  what  he  loves,  and  what  he 
admires,  and  what  he  aspires  to,  he  miist  betray.  It's 
his  fatality.  He  lives  for  the  moment  when  he  can  kiss 
Gerald  in  the  Garden  of  Olives,  or  wherever  it  was. 

Anabel.     But  Gerald  shouldn't  be  kissed. 

Oliver.     That's  what  I  say. 

Anabel.  And  that's  what  his  mother  means  as  well, 
I  suppose. 

(Enter  Gerald.^ 

Gerald.    Well — you've  heard  the  voice  of  the  people. 

Anabel.     He  isn't  the  people. 

Gerald.     I  think  he  is,  myself — the  epitome. 

Oliver.    No,  he's  a  special  type. 

Gerald.     Ineffectual,  don't  you  think? 

Anabel.  How  pleased  you  are,  Gerald !  How  pleased 
you  are  with  yourself !    You  love  the  turn  with  him. 

Gerald.     It's  rather  stimulating,  you  know. 

Anabel.     It  oughtn't  to  be,  then. 

Oliver.     He 's  your  Judas,  and  you  love  him. 

Gerald.  Nothing  so  deep.  He's  just  a  sort  of 
^olian  harp  that  sings  to  the  temper  of  the  wind.  I 
find  him  amusing. 

Anabel.     I  think  it's  boring. 

Oliver.     And  I  think  it's  nasty. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  71 

Gerald.  I  believe  you're  both  jealous  of  him.  What 
do  you  think  of  the  British  working  man,  Oliver  ? 

Oliver.  It  seems  to  me  he's  in  nearly  as  bad  a  way 
as  the  British  employer:  he's  nearly  as  much  beside  the 
point. 

Gerald.     What  point? 

Oliver.     Oh,  just  life. 

Gerald.  That's  too  vague,  my  boy.  Do  you  think 
they  '11  ever  make  a  bust-up  ? 

Oliver.  I  can't  tell.  I  don't  see  any  good  in  it,  if 
they  do. 

Gerald.  It  might  clear  the  way — and  it  might  block 
the  way  for  ever:  depends  what  comes  through.  But, 
sincerely,  I  don 't  think  they  've  got  it  in  them. 

Anabel.     They  may  have  something  better. 

Gerald.  That  suggestion  doesn't  interest  me,  Anabel. 
Ah,  well,  we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see.  Have  a  whisky 
and  soda  with  me,  Oliver,  and  let  the  troubled  course  of 
this  evening  run  to  a  smooth  close.  It's  quite  like  old 
times.    Aren't  you  smoking,  Anabel? 

Anabel.     No,  thanks. 

Gerald.  I  believe  you're  a  reformed  character.  So 
it  won't  be  like  old  times,  after  all. 

Anabel.     I  don't  want  old  times.    I  want  new  ones. 

Gerald.  Wait  till  Job  Arthur  has  risen  like  Anti- 
christ, and  proclaimed  the  resurrection  of  the  gods. — 
Do  3^ou  see  Job  Arthur  proclaiming  Dionysos  and 
Aphrodite  ? 

Anabel.  It  bores  me.  I  don't  like  your  mood. 
Good  night. 

Gerald.     Oh,  don't  go. 

Anabel.     Yes,  good  night.  (Exit.) 


72  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Oliver.  She's  not  reformed,  Gerald.  She's  the  same 
old  moral  character — amoral  to  the  last  bit  of  her,  really 
— as  she  always  was. 

Gerald.     Is  that  what  it  is? — But  one  must  be  moral. 

Oliver.  Oh,  yes.  Oliver  Cromwell  wasn't  as  moral 
as  Anabel  is — nor  such  an  iconoclast. 

Gerald.    Poor  old  Anabel ! 

Oliver.     How  she  hates  the  dark  gods ! 

Gerald.  And  yet  they  cast  a  spell  over  her.  Poor  old 
Anabel !    Well,  Oliver,  is  Bacchus  the  father  of  whisky  ? 

Oliver.  I  don't  know. — I  don't  like  you  either. 
You  seem  to  smile  all  over  yourself.  It's  objectionable. 
Good  night. 

Gerald.     Oh,  look  here,  this  is  censorious. 

Oliver.    You  smile  to  yourself.  (Exit.) 

(Curtain.) 


ACT  III 

Scene  I 

An  old  park.  Early  evening.  In  tJie  background  a 
low  Georgian  Jiall,  wJiich  Tias  been  turned  into  of- 
fices for  tJie  Company^  shows  windows  already 
ligfited.    Gerald  and  Anabel  walk  along  the  path. 

Anabel.    How  beautiful  this  old  park  is ! 

Gerald.  Yes,  it  is  beautiful — seems  so  far  away 
from  everywhere,  if  one  doesn't  remember  that  the  hall 
is  turned  into  offices. — No  one  has  lived  here  since  I  was 
a  little  boy.  I  remember  going  to  a  Christmas  party  at 
the  Walsalls'. 

Anabel.     Has  it  been  shut  up  so  long? 

Gerald.  The  Walsalls  didn't  like  it — too  near  the 
ugliness.  They  were  county,  you  know — we  never  were : 
father  never  gave  mother  a  chance,  there.  And  besides, 
the  place  is  damp,  cellars  full  of  water. 

Anabel.     Even  now? 

Gerald.  No,  not  now — they've  been  drained.  But 
the  place  would  be  too  damp  for  a  dwelling-house.  It's 
all  right  as  offices.  They  burn  enormous  fires.  The  rooms 
are  quite  charming.  This  is  what  happens  to  the  stately 
homes  of  England — they  buzz  with  inky  clerks,  or  their 
equivalent.     Stateliness  is  on  its  last  legs. 

Anabel.  Yes,  it  grieves  me — though  I  should  be 
73 


74  TOUCH  AND  GO 

bored  if  I  had  to  be  stately,  I  think. — Isn't  it  beautiful 
in  this  light,  like  an  eighteenth-century  aquatint?  I'm 
sure  no  age  was  as  ugly  as  this,  since  the  world  began. 

Gerald.  For  pure  ugliness,  certainly  not.  And  I 
believe  none  has  been  so  filthy  to  live  in. — Let  us  sit 
down  a  minute,  shall  we  ?  and  watch  the  rooks  fly  home. 
It  always  stirs  sad,  sentimental  feelings  in  me. 

Anabel.  So  it  does  in  me. — Listen !  one  can  hear  the 
coal-carts  on  the  road — and  the  brook — and  the  dull  noise 
of  the  town — and  the  beating  of  New  London  pit — and 
voices — and  the  rooks — and  yet  it  is  so  still.  We  seem 
so  still  here,  don't  we? 

Gerald.    Yes. 

Anabel.    Don't  you  think  weVe  been  wrong? 

Gerald.     How  ? 

Anabel.  In  the  way  we've  lived — and  the  way  we  Ve 
loved. 

Gerald.  It  hasn't  been  heaven,  has  it?  Yet  I  don't 
know  that  we've  been  wrong,  Anabel.  We  had  it  to  go 
through. 

Anabel.     Perhaps. — And,  yes,  we've  been  wrong,  too. 

Gerald.     Probably.    Only,  I  don't  feel  it  like  that. 

Anabel.  Then  I  think  you  ought.  You  ought  to  feel 
you've  been  wrong. 

Gerald.  Yes,  probably.  Only,  I  don't.  I  can't  help 
it.  I  think  we've  gone  the  way  we  had  to  go,  following 
our  own  natures. 

Anabel.     And  where  has  it  landed  us? 

Gerald.    Here. 

Anabel.     And  where  is  that? 

Gerald.  Just  on  this  bench  in  the  park,  looking  at 
the  evening. 


TOUCH  AND  GO 


75 


Anabel. 
Gerald. 
Anabel. 
Gerald. 
Anabel. 
Gerald. 
Anabel. 
been. 
Gerald. 
Anabel. 


But  what  next? 
God  knows!    Why  trouble? 
One  must  trouble.    I  want  to  feel  sure. 
What  of? 

Of  you — and  of  myself. 
Then  he  sure. 
But  I  can't.    Think  of  the  past— what  it's 


This  isn't  the  past. 

But  what  is  it?    Is  there  anything  sure  in 
it  ?    Is  there  any  real  happiness  ? 

Gerald.     Why  not  ? 

Anabel.     But  how  can  you  ask?    Think  of  what  our 
life  has  been. 

Gerald.     I  don't  want  to. 

Anabel.    No,  you  don't.    But  what  do  you  want? 

Gerald.     I'm  all  right,  you  know,  sitting  here  like 
this. 

Anabel. 

Gerald. 

Anabel. 

Gerald. 
a  bit. 

Anabel. 

Gerald. 

Anabel. 

Gerald. 

Anabel. 
forget. 

Gerald. 

Anabel. 
happy. 


But  one  can't  sit  here  for  ever,  can  one? 
I  don't  want  to. 

And  what  will  you  do  when  we  leave  here  ? 
God  knows!     Don't   worry   me.     Be   still 

But  I'm  worried.    You  don't  love  me. 
I  won't  argue  it. 
And  I  'm  not  happy. 
Why  not,  Anabel  ? 
Because  you  don't  love  me — and  I  can't 

I  do  love  you — and  to-night  I've  forgotten. 
Then    make    me    forget,    too.      Make    me 


76 


TOUCH  AND  GO 


Gerald.    I  can't  make  you — and  you  know  it. 
Anabel.     Yes,  you  can.     It's  your  business  to  make 
me  happy.    I've  made  you  happy. 

Gerald.     You  want  to  make  me  unhappy. 

Anabel.  I  do  think  you're  the  last  word  in  selfish- 
ness. If  I  say  I  can't  forget,  you  merely  say,  "I've 
forgotten ' ' ;  and  if  I  say  I  'm  unhappy,  all  ijou  can  an- 
swer is  that  I  want  to  make  yon  unhappy.  I  don 't  in  the 
least.  I  want  to  be  happy  myself.  But  you  don't  help 
me. 

Gerald.  There  is  no  help  for  it,  you  see.  If  you 
were  happy  with  me  here  you'd  be  happy.  As  you 
aren't,  nothing  will  make  you — not  genuinely. 

Anabel.     And  that's  all  you  care. 

Gerald.  No — I  wish  we  could  both  be  happy  at  the 
same  moment.    But  apparently  we  can 't. 

Anabel.  And  why  not? — Because  you're  selfish,  and 
think  of  nothing  but  yourself  and  your  own  feelings. 

Gerald.     If  it  is  so,  it  is  so. 

Anabel.     Then  we  shall  never  be  happy. 

Gerald.     Then  we  sha 'n't.    (A  pause.) 

Anabel.     Then  what  are  we  going  to  do? 

Gerald.    Do  ? 

Anabel.     Do  you  want  me  to  be  with  you? 

Gerald.    Yes. 

Anabel.    Are  you  sure? 

Gerald.     Yes. 

Anabel.     Then  why  don 't  you  want  me  to  be  happy  ? 

Gerald.     If  you'd  only  he  happy,  here  and  now 

Anabel.     How  can  I? 

Gerald.  How  can't  you? — You've  got  a  devil  inside 
you. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  77 

Anabel.    Then  make  me  not  have  a  devil. 

Gerald.  I've  known  you  long  enough — and  known 
myself  long  enough — to  know  I  can  make  you  nothing 
at  all,  Anabel :  neither  can  you  make  me.  If  the  happi- 
ness isn't  there — well,  we  shall  have  to  wait  for  it,  like 
a  dispensation.  It  probably  means  we  shall  have  to 
hate  each  other  a  little  more. — I  suppose  hate  is  a  real 
process. 

Anabel.  Yes,  I  know  you  believe  more  in  hate  than 
in  love. 

Gerald.  Nobody  is  more  weary  of  hate  than  I  am — 
and  yet  we  can't  fix  our  own  hour,  when  we  shall  leave 
off  hating  and  fighting.    It  has  to  work  itself  out  in  us. 

Anabel.  But  I  don't  want  to  hate  and  fight  with 
you  any  more.    I  don't  believe  in  it — not  any  more. 

Gerald.  It's  a  cleansing  process — like  Aristotle's 
Katharsis.  We  shall  hate  ourselves  clean  at  last,  I 
suppose. 

Anabel.  Why  aren't  you  clean  now?  Why  can't 
you  love?    (He  laughs.)    Do  you  love  me? 

Gerald.     Yes. 

Anabel.     Do  you  want  to  be  with  me  for  ever? 

Gerald.     Yes. 

Anabel.     Sure  ? 

Gerald.     Quite  sure. 

Anabel.     Why  are  you  so  cool  about  it? 

Gerald.     I  'm  not.    I  'm  only  sure — which  you  are  not. 

Anabel.     Yes,  I  am — I  want  to  be  married  to  you. 

Gerald.  I  know  you  want  me  to  want  you  to  be  mar- 
ried to  me.  But  whether  off  your  own  bat  you  have  a 
positive  desire  that  way,  I'm  not  sure.  You  keep  some- 
thing back — some  sort  of  female  reservation — like  a  dag- 


78  TOUCH  AND  GO 

ger  up  your  sleeve.  You  want  to  see  me  in  transports 
of  love  for  you. 

Anabel.  How  can  you  say  so?  There — ^you  see — 
there — this  is  the  man  that  pretends  to  love  me,  and 
then  says  I  keep  a  dagger  up  my  sleeve.    You  liar! 

Gerald.  I  do  love  you — and  you  do  keep  a  dagger 
up  your  sleeve — some  devilish  little  female  reservation 
which  spies  at  me  from  a  distance,  in  your  soul,  all  the 
time,  as  if  I  were  an  enemy. 

Anabel.  How  can  you  say  so? — Doesn't  it  show 
what  you  must  be  j^ourself  ?  Doesn't  it  show? — What 
is  there  in  your  soul  ? 

Gerald.     I  don't  know. 

Anabel.     Love,  pure  love ? — Do  you  pretend  it's  love? 

Gerald.     I  'm  so  tired  of  this. 

Anabel.  So  am  I,  dead  tired:  you  self -deceiving, 
self-complacent  thing.  Ha ! — aren  't  you  just  the  same  1 
You  haven't  altered  one  scrap,  not  a  scrap. 

Gerald.  All  right — you  are  always  free  to  change 
yourself. 

Anabel.  I  liave  changed,  I  am  better,  I  do  love  you — 
I  love  you  wholly  and  unselfishly — I  do — and  I  want  a 
good  new  life  with  you. 

Gerald.  You're  terribly  wrapped  up  in  your  new 
goodness.  I  wish  you'd  make  up  your  mind  to  be  down- 
right bad. 

Anabel.    Ha! — Do  you? — You'd  soon   see.     You'd 

soon  see  where  you'd  be  if There's  somebody  com-^ 

ing.    (Rises.) 

Gerald.  Never  mind;  it's  the  clerks  leaving  work,  I 
suppose.    Sit  still. 

Anabel.    Won't  you  go? 


TOUCH  AND  GO  79 

Gerald.  No.  (A  man  draws  near,  followed  hy  an- 
otJier.)    Good  evening. 

Clerk.  Good  evening,  sir.  (Passes  on.)  Good  even- 
ing, Mr.  Barlow. 

Anabel.     They  are  afraid. 

Gerald.  I  suppose  their  consciences  are  uneasy  about 
this  strike. 

Anabel.  Did  you  come  to  sit  here  just  to  catch  them, 
like  a  spider  waiting  for  them? 

Gerald.     No.    I  wanted  to  speak  to  Breffitt. 

Anabel.     I  believe  you're  capable  of  any  horridness. 

Gerald.  All  right,  you  believe  it.  (Two  more  figures 
approach.)    Good  evening. 

Clerks.  Good  night,  sir.  (One  passes,  one  stops.) 
Good  evening,  Mr.  Barlow.  Er — did  you  want  to  see 
Mr.  Breffitt,  sir? 

Gerald.     Not  particularly. 

Clerk.  Oh!  He'll  be  out  directly,  sir — if  you'd  like 
me  to  go  back  and  tell  him  you  wanted  him? 

Gerald.    No,  thank  you. 

Clerk.     Good  night,  sir.    Excuse  me  asking. 

Gerald.     Good  night. 

Anabel.     Who  is  Mr.  Breffitt  ? 

Gerald.  He  is  the  chief  clerk — and  cashier — one  of 
father's  old  pillars  of  society. 

Anabel.     Don't  you  like  him? 

Gerald.    Not  much. 

Anabel.    Why? — You  seem  to  dislike  very  easily. 

Gerald.  Oh,  they  all  used  to  try  to  snub  me,  these 
old  buffers.  They  detest  me  like  poison,  because  I  am 
different  from  father. 

Anabel.     I  believe  you  enjoy  being  detested. 


80  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Gerald.  I  do.  (Anotlier  clerk  approaches — Jiesitates 
— stops.) 

Clerk.  Good  evening,  sir.  Good  evening,  Mr.  Bar- 
low. Er — did  you  want  anybody  at  the  office,  sir? 
We're  just  closing. 

Gerald.     No,  I  didn't  want  anybody. 

Clerk.  Oh,  no,  sir.  I  see.  Er — by  the  way,  sir — 
er — I  hope  you  don't  think  this — er — bother  about  an 
increase — this  strike  threat — started  in  the  office? 

Gerald.     Where  did  it  start? 

Clerk.  I  should  think  it  started — where  it  usually 
starts,  Mr.  Barlow — among  a  few  loud-mouthed  people 
who  think  they  can  do  as  they  like  with  the  men. 
They're  only  using  the  office  men  as  a  cry — that's  all. 
They've  no  interest  in  us.  They  want  to  show  their 
power. — That 's  how  it  is,  sir. 

Gerald.     Oh,  yes. 

Clerk.  We're  powerless,  if  they  like  to  make  a  cry 
out  of  us. 

Gerald.     Quite. 

Clerk.     We're  as  much  put  out  about  it  as  anybody. 

Gerald.     Of  course. 

Clerk.  Yes — well — good  night,  sir.  (Clerks  draw 
near — tJiere  is  a  sound  of  loud  young  voices  and  bicycle 
hells.    Bicycles  sweep  past.) 

Clerks.     Good  night,  sir. — Good  night,  sir. 

Gerald.  Good  night. — They're  very  bucked  to  see  me 
sitting  here  with  a  woman — a  young  lady  as  they'll  say. 
I  guess  your  name  will  be  flying  round  to-morrow.  They 
stop  partly  to  have  a  good  look  at  you.  Do  they  know 
you,  do  you  think? 

Anabel.    Sure. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  81 

Clerks.  Mr.  Breffitt's  just  coming,  sir.— Good  night, 
sir. — Good  night,  sir.    (AnotJier  bicycle  passes.) 

Anabel.  The  bicycles  don't  see  us. — Isn't  it  rather 
hateful  to  be  a  master?  The  attitude  of  them  all  is  so 
•ugly.    I  can  quite  see  that  it  makes  you  rather  a  bully. 

Gerald.  I  suppose  it  does.  (Figure  of  a  large  man 
approacJies.) 

Breffitt.  Oh — ah — it's  Mr.  Gerald! — I  couldn't 
make  out  who  it  was. — Were  you  coming  up  to  the  office, 
sir  ?    Do  you  want  me  to  go  back  with  you  ? 

Gerald.  No,  thank  you — I  just  wanted  a  word  with 
you  about  this  agitation.  It'll  do  just  as  well  here.  It's 
a  pity  it  started — ^that  the  office  should  have  set  it  go- 
ing, Breffitt. 

Breffitt.  It's  none  of  the  office's  doing,  I  think 
you'll  find,  Mr.  Gerald.  The  office  men  did  nothing  but 
ask  for  a  just  advance — at  any  rate,  times  and  prices 
being  what  they  are,  I  consider  it  a  fair  advance.  If  the 
men  took  it  up,  it's  because  they've  got  a  set  of  loud- 
mouthed blatherers  and  agitators  among  them  like  Job 
Arthur  Freer,  who  deserve  to  be  hung — and  hanging 
they'd  get,  if  I  could  have  the  judging  of  them. 

Gerald.  Well — it's  very  unfortunate — ^because  we 
can't  give  the  clerks  their  increase  now,  you  know. 

Breffitt.  Can't  you? — can't  you?  I  can't  see  that 
it  would  be  anything  out  of  the  way,  if  I  say  what  I 
think. 

Gerald.  No.  They  won't  get  any  increase  now.  It 
shouldn  't  have  been  allowed  to  become  a  public  cry  with 
the  colliers.    We  can't  give  in  now. 

Breffitt.     Have  the  Board  decided  that? 

Gerald.     They  have — on  my  .advice. 


82  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Breffitt.     Hm ! — then  the  men  will  come  out. 

Gerald.     We  will  see. 

Breffitt.  It's  trouble  for  nothing — it's  trouble  that 
could  be  avoided.  The  clerks  could  have  their  advance, 
and  it  would  hurt  nobody. 

Gerald.  Too  late  now. — I  suppose  if  the  men  come 
out,  the  clerks  will  come  out  with  them? 

Breffitt.     They'll  have  to — they'll  have  to. 

Gerald.  If  they  do,  we  may  then  make  certain  alter- 
ations in  the  office  staff  which  have  needed  making  for 
some  time. 

Breffitt.  Very  good — very  good.  I  know  what  you 
mean. — I  don 't  know  how  your  father  bears  all  this,  Mr. 
Gerald. 

Gerald.  We  keep  it  from  him  as  much  as  possible. — 
You'll  let  the  clerks  know  the  decision.  And  if  they 
stay  out  with  the  men,  I'll  go  over  the  list  of  the  staff 
with  you.     It  has  needed  revising  for  a  long  time. 

Breffitt.  I  know  what  you  mean — I  know  what  you 
mean — I  believe  I  understand  the  firm's  interest  in  my 
department.  I  ought,  after  forty  years  studying  it. 
I've  studied  the  firm's  interests  for  forty  years,  Mr. 
Gerald.    I  'm  not  likely  to  forget  them  now. 

Gerald.     Of  course. 

Breffitt.  But  I  think  it's  a  mistake — I  think  it's  a 
mistake,  and  I'm  bound  to  say  it,  to  let  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  rise  for  a  very  small  cause.  The  clerks  might 
have  had  what  they  reasonably  asked  her. 

Gerald.     Well,  it's  too  late  now. 

Breffitt.  I  suppose  it  is — I  suppose  it  is.  I  hope 
you'll  remember,  sir,  that  I've  put  the  interest  of  the 
firm  before  everything — before  every  consideration. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  83 

Gerald.     Of  course,  Breffitt. 

Breffitt.  But  you've  not  had  any  liking  for  the 
office  staff,  I'm  afraid,  sir — not  since  your  father  put  you 
amongst  us  for  a  few  months. — Well,  sir,  we  shall  weather 
this  gale,  I  hope,  as  we've  weathered  those  in  the  past. 
Times  don't  become  better,  do  they?  Men  are  an 
ungrateful  lot,  and  these  agitators  should  be  lynched. 
They  would,  if  I  had  my  way. 

Gerald.     Yes,  of  course.    Don't  wait. 

Breffitt.     Good  night  to  you.  (Exit.) 

Gerald.     Good  night. 

Anabel.     He's  the  last,  apparently. 

Gerald.     We'll  hope  so. 

Anabel.     He  puts  you  in  a  fury. 

Gerald.  It's  his  manner.  My  father  spoilt  them — 
abominable  old  limpets.  And  they're  so  self-righteous. 
They  think  I'm  a  sort  of  criminal  who  has  instigated 
this  new  devilish  system  which  runs  everything  so  close 
and  cuts  it  so  fine — as  if  they  hadn  't  made  this  inevitable 
by  their  shameless  carelessness  and  wastefulness  in  the 
past.  He  may  well  boast  of  his  forty  years — forty  years ' 
crass,  stupid  wastefulness. 

(Two  or  tliree  more  clerks  pass,  talking  till  tJiey  ap- 
proach tlie  seat,  then  becoming  silent  after  bidding 
good  night.) 

Anabel.     But  aren  't  you  a  bit  sorry  for  them  ? 

Gerald.  Why?  If  they're  poor,  what  does  it  matter 
in  a  world  of  chaos  ? 

Anabel.  And  aren't  you  an  obstinate  ass  not  to  give 
them  the  bit  they  want.    It's  mere  stupid  obstinacy. 


84  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Gerald.     It  may  be.    I  call  it  policy. 

Anabel.     Men  always  do  call  their  obstinacy  policy. 

Gerald.  "Well,  I  don't  care  what  happens.  I  wish 
things  would  come  to  a  head.    I  only  fear  they  won 't. 

Anabel.  Aren't  you  rather  wicked? — AskiJig  for 
strife? 

Gerald.  I  hope  I  am.  It's  quite  a  relief  to  me  to 
feel  that  I  may  be  wicked.  I  fear  I'm  not.  I  can  see 
them  all  anticipating  victory,  in  their  low-down  fashion 
wanting  to  crow  their  low-down  crowings.  I'm  afraid 
I  feel  it's  a  righteous  cause,  to  cut  a  lot  of  little  combs 
before  I  die. 

Anabel.  But  if  they're  in  the  right  in  what  they 
want? 

Gerald.  In  the  right — in  the  right! — They're  just 
greedy,  incompetent,  stupid,  gloating  in  a  sense  of  the 
worst  sort  of  power.  They're  like  vicious  children,  who 
would  like  to  kill  their  parents  so  that  they  could  have 
the  run  of  the  larder.    The  rest  is  just  cant. 

Anabel.  If  you  're  the  parent  in  the  case,  I  must  say 
you  flow  over  with  loving-kindness  for  them. 

Gerald.  I  don't — I  detest  them.  I  only  hope  they 
will  fight.  If  they  would,  I'd  have  some  respect  for 
them.    But  you'll  see  what  it  will  be. 

Anabel.     I  wish  I  needn't,  for  it's  very  sickening. 

Gerald.     Sickening  beyond  expression. 

Anabel.     I  wish  w^e  could  go  right  away. 

Gerald.  So  do  I — If  one  could  get  oneself  out  of  this. 
But  one  can't.  It's  the  same  wherever  you  have  in- 
dustrialism— and  you  have  industrialism  every^vhere, 
whether  it 's  Timbuctoo  or  Paraguay  or  Antananarivo. 

Anabel.    No,  it  isn  't :  you  exaggerate. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  85 

Job  Arthur  (suddenly  approacliing  from  the  other 
side).  Good  evening,  Mr.  Barlow.  I  heard  you  were  in 
here.    Could  I  have  a  word  with  you? 

Gerald.     Get  on  with  it,  then. 

Job  Arthur.  Is  it  right  that  you  won't  meet  the 
clerks  ? 

Gerald.     Yes. 

Job  Arthur.     Not  in  any  way? 

Gerald.     Not  in  any  way  whatsoever. 

Job  Arthur.  But — I  thought  I  understood  from  you 
the  other  night 

Gerald.     It 's  all  the  same  what  you  understood. 

Job  Arthur.     Then  you  take  it  back,  sir? 

Gerald.  I  take  nothing  back,  because  I  gave 
nothing. 

Job  Arthur.  Oh,  excuse  me,  excuse  me,  sir.  You 
said  it  would  be  all  right  about  the  clerks.  This  lady 
heard  you  say  it. 

Gerald.  Don't  you  call  witnesses  against  me. — Be- 
sides, what  does  it  matter  to  you?  What  in  the  name 
of 

Job  Arthur.  Well,  sir,  you  said  it  would  be  all  right, 
and  I  went  on  that 

Gerald.     You  went  on  that!    Where  did  you  go  to? 

Job  Arthur.     The  men '11  be  out  on  Monday. 

Gerald.     So  shall  I. 

Job  Arthur.     Oh,  yes,  but — where 's  it  going  to  end? 

Gerald.  Do  you  want  me  to  prophesy?  When  did 
I  set  up  for  a  public  prophet? 

Job  Arthur.  I  don't  know,  sir.  But  perhaps  you're 
doing  more  than  you  know.  There's  a  funny  feeling 
just  now  among  the  men. 


86  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Gerald.  So  I've  heard  before.  Why  should  I  con- 
cern myself  with  their  feelings?  Am  I  to  cry  when 
every  collier  bumps  his  funny-bone — or  to  laugh? 

Job  Arthur.     It's  no  laughing  matter,  you  see. 

Gerald.  And  I  'm  sure  it 's  no  crying  matter — ^unless 
you  want  to  cry,  do  you  see  ? 

Job  Arthur.  Ah,  but,  very  likely,  it  wouldn't  be  me 
who  would  cry. — You  don't  know  what  might  happen, 
now. 

Gerald.  I'm  waiting  for  something  to  happen.  I 
should  like  something  to  happen — very  much — very 
much  indeed. 

Job  Arthur.  Yes,  but  perhaps  you'd  be  sorry  if  it 
did  happen. 

Gerald.     Is  that  a  warning  or  a  threat? 

Job  Arthur.  I  don't  know — it  might  be  a  bit  of 
both.    What  I  mean  to  say 

Gerald  (suddenly  seizing  Mm  hy  the  scruff  of  ilie 
neck  and  sJiaking  liirn).  What  do  you  mean  to  say? — 
I  mean  you  to  say  less,  do  you  see  ? — a  great  deal  less — 
do  you  see?  You've  run  on  with  your  saying  long 
enough:  that  clock  had  better  run  down.  So  stop  your 
sayings — stop  your  sayings,  I  tell  you — or  you'll  have 
them  shaken  out  of  you — shaken  out  of  you — shaken  out 
of  you,  do  you  see?    (Suddenly  flings  Jiim  aside.) 

CJob  Arthur,  staggering,  falls.) 

Anabel.     Oh,  no! — oh,  no! 

Gerald.  Now  get  up,  Job  Arthur;  and  get  up  wiser 
than  you  went  down.  You've  played  your  little  game 
and  your  little  tricks  and  made  your  little  sayings  long 


TOUCH  AND  GO  87 

enough.  You're  going  to  stop  now.  We've  had  quite 
enough  of  strong  men  of  your  stamp,  Job  Arthur — quite 
enough — such  labour  leaders  as  you. 

Job  Arthur.  You'll  be  sorry,  Mr.  Barlow — you'll  be 
sorry.    You  '11  wish  you  'd  not  attacked  me. 

Gerald.  Don 't  you  trouble  about  me  and  my  sorrow. 
Mind  your  own. 

Job  Arthur.  You  will — you'll  be  sorry.  You'll  be 
sorry  for  what  you've  done.  You'll  wish  you'd  never 
begun  this. 

Gerald.  Begun — begun  ? — I  'd  like  to  finish,  too,  that 
I  would.     I'd  like  to  finish  with  you,  too — I  warn  you. 

Job  Arthur.  I  warn  you — I  warn  you.  You  won't 
go  on  much  longer.     Every  parish  has  its  own  vermin. 

Gerald.     Vermin  1 

Job  Arthur.  Every  parish  has  its  own  vermin;  it 
lies  with  every  perish  to  destroy  ita  own.  We  sha'n't 
have  a  clean  parish  till  we've  destroyed  the  vermin 
we've  got. 

Gerald.  Vermin?  The  fool's  raving.  Vermin! — 
Another  phrase-maker,  by  God!  Another  phrase-maker 
to  lead  the  people. — Vermin?  What  vermin?  I  know 
quite  well  what  I  mean  by  vermin.  Job  Arthur.  But 
what  do  you  mean?    Vermin?    Explain  yourself. 

Job  Arthur.  Yes,  vermin.  Vermin  is  what  lives  on 
other  people's  lives,  living  on  their  lives  and  profiting 
by  it.  We've  got  'em  in  every  parish — vermin,  I  say — 
that  live  on  the  sweat  and  blood  of  the  people — live  on 
it,  and  get  rich  on  it — get  rich  through  living  on  other 
people's  lives,  the  lives  of  the  working  men — living  on 
the  bodies  of  the  working  men — that's  vermin — if  it  isn't, 


88  TOUCH  AND  GO 

what  is  it?  And  every  parish  must  destroy  its  own — 
every  parish  must  destroy  its  own  vermin. 

Gerald.     The  phrase,  my  God!  the  phrase. 

Job  Arthur.  Phrase  or  not  phrase,  there  it  is,  and 
face  it  out  if  you  can.  There  it  is — there  *s  not  one  in 
every  parish — there's  more  than  one — there's  a  num- 
ber  

Gerald  (suddenly  kicking  Mm).  Go!  (Kicks  Mm.) 
Go!  (Kicks  Mm.)  Go!  ("Job  Arthur  falls.)  Get  out! 
(Kicks  Mm.)  Get  out,  I  say!  Get  out,  I  tell  you !  Get 
out!  Get  out! — Vermin! — Vermin! — I'll  vermin  you! 
'Ill  put  my  foot  through  your  phrases.  Get  up,  I  say, 
get  up  and  go — go! 

Job  Arthur.     It'll  be  you  as '11  go,  this  time. 

Gerald.  What?  What?— By  God!  I'll  kick  you 
out  of  this  park  like  a  rotten  bundle  if  you  don't  get  up 
and  go. 

Anabel.  No,  Gerald,  no.  Don't  forget  yourself.  It's 
enough  now.  It's  enough  now. — Come  away.  Do  come 
away.    Come  away — leave  him 

Job  Arthur,  (still  on  the  ground).  It's  your  turn  to 
go.    It's  you  as '11  go,  this  time. 

Gerald  (looking  at  Mm).  One  can't  even  tread  on 
you. 

Anabel.  Don't,  Gerald,  don't — don't  look  at  him. — 
Don't  say  any  more,  you,  Job  Arthur. — Come  away, 
Gerald.     Come  away — come — do  come. 

Gerald  (turning).  That  a  human  being!  My  God! 
— But  he's  right — it's  I  who  go.  It's  we  who  go,  Anabel. 
He's  still  there. — ^My  God!  a  human  being! 

(Curtain.) 


TOUCH  AND  GO  89 


Scene  II 

Market-place  as  in  Act  I.  Willie  Houghton,  address- 
ing a  large  crowd  of  men  from  the  foot  of  the  obe- 
lisk. 

Willie.  And  now  you're  out  on  strike — now  you've 
been  out  for  a  week  pretty  nearly,  what  further  are 
you?  I  heard  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  what  you  were 
going  to  do.  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do?  You 
don't  know.  You've  not  the  smallest  idea.  You  haven't 
any  idea  whatsoever.  You've  got  your  leaders.  Now 
then.  Job  Arthur,  throw  a  little  light  on  the  way  in 
front,  will  you :  for  it  seems  to  me  we  're  lost  in  a  bog. 
Which  way  are  we  to  steer?  Come — give  the  word,  and 
let's  gee-up. 

Job  Arthur.  You  ask  me  which  way  we  are  to  go. 
I  say  we  can't  go  our  own  way,  because  of  the  obstacles 
that  lie  in  front.  You've  got  to  remove  the  obstacles 
from  the  way. 

Willie.  So  said  Balaam's  ass.  But  you're  not  an 
ass — beg  pardon;  and  you're  not  Balaam — you're  Job. 
And  we've  all  got  to  be  little  Jobs,  learning  how  to  spell 
patience  backr^vards.  We've  lost  our  jobs  and  we've 
found  a  Job.  It's  picking  up  a  scorpion  when  you're 
looking  for  an  egg. — Tell  us  what  you  propose  doing.  .  .  . 
Remove  an  obstacle  from  the  way !  What  obstacle  ?  And 
whose  way? 

Job  Arthur.  I  think  it's  pretty  plain  what  the  ob- 
stacle is. 

Willie.    Oh,  ay.    Tell  us  theu'. 


90  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Job  Arthur.    The  obstacle  to  Labour  is  Capital. 

Willie.  And  how  are  we  going  to  put  salt  on  Capi- 
tal's tail? 

Job  Arthur.  By  Labour  we  mean  us  working  men ; 
and  by  Capital  we  mean  those  that  derive  benefit  from 
us,  take  the  cream  off  us  and  leave  us  the  skim. 

Willie.     Oh,  yes. 

Job  Arthur.  So  that,  if  you're  going  to  remove  the 
obstacle,  you've  got  to  remove  the  masters,  and  all  that 
belongs  to  them.    Does  everybody  agree  with  me? 

Voices  (loud).  Ah,  we  do — yes — ^we  do  that — we  do 
an^  a' — yi — yi — that's  it! 

Willie.  Agreed  unanimously.  But  how  are  we  go- 
ing to  do  it?  Do  you  propose  to  send  for  Williamson's 
furniture  van,  to  pack  them  in?  I  should  think  one 
pantechnicon  would  do,  just  for  this  parish.  I'll  drive. 
Who  '11  be  the  vanmen  to  lift  and  carry  ? 

Job  Arthur.  It's  no  use  fooling.  You've  fooled  for 
thirty  years,  and  we're  no  further.  What's  got  to  be 
done  will  have  to  be  begun.  It's  for  every  man  to 
sweep  in  front  of  his  own  doorstep.  You  can't  call  your 
neighbours  dirty  till  you've  washed  your  own  face. 
Every  parish  has  got  its  own  vermin,  and  it's  the  busi- 
ness of  every  parish  to  get  rid  of  its  own. 

Voices.  That's  it — that's  it — that's  the  ticket — that's 
the  style ! 

Willie.  And  are  you  going  to  comb  'em  out,  or  do 
you  propose  to  use  Keating 's? 

Voices.  Shut  it !  Shut  it  up !  Stop  thy  face !  Hold 
thy  gab ! — Go  on.  Job  Arthur. 

Job  Arthur.  How  it's  got  to  be  done  is  for  us  all  to 
decide.     I'm  not  one  for  violence,  except  it's  a  force- 


TOUCH  AND  GO  91 

put.  But  it's  like  this.  We've  been  travelling  for  years 
to  where  we  stand  now — and  here  the  road  stops. 
There's  only  room  for  one  at  a  time  on  this  path. 
There's  a  precipice  below  and  a  rock-face  above.  And 
in  front  of  us  stand  the  masters.  Now  there's  three 
things  we  can  do.  We  can  either  throw  ourselves  over 
the  precipice;  or  we  can  lie  down  and  let  the  masters 
walk  over  us ;  or  we  can  get  on. 

Willie.  Yes.  That's  all  right.  But  how  are  you 
going  to  get  on  1 

Job  Arthur.  Well — we've  either  got  to  throw  the 
obstacle  down  the  cliff — or  walk  over  it. 

Voices.     Ay — ay — ay — yes — that's  a  fact. 

Willie.  I  quite  follow  you,  Job  Arthur.  You've 
either  got  to  do  for  the  masters — or  else  just  remove 
them,  and  put  them  somewhere  else. 

Voices.  Get  rid  on  'em — drop  'em  down  the  shaft — 
sink  'em — ha'  done  wi'  'em — drop  'em  down  the  shaft 
— bust  the  beggars — what  do  you  do  wi'  vermin? 

Willie.  Supposing  you  begin.  Supposing  you  take 
Gerald  Barlow,  and  hang  him  up  from  this  lamp-post, 
with  a  piece  of  coal  in  his  mouth  for  a  sacrament 

Voices.  Ay — serve  him  right — serve  the  beggar 
right !    Shove  it  down 's  throttle — ay ! 

Willie.  Supposing  you  do  it — supposing  you  've  done 
it — and  supposing  you  aren't  caught  and  punished — 
even  supposing  that — what  are  you  going  to  do  next? — 
that's  the  point. 

Job  Arthur.  We  know  what  we're  going  to  do. 
Once  we  can  get  our  hands  free,  we  know  what  we're 
going  to  do. 

Willie.     Yes,  so  do  I.    You're  either  going  to  make 


92  TOUCH  AND  GO 

sucJi  a  mess  that  we  shall  never  get  out  of  it — which  I 
don't  think  you  will  do,  for  the  English  working  man  is 
the  soul  of  obedience  and  order,  and  he'd  behave  himself 
to-morrow  as  if  he  was  at  Sunday  school,  no  matter  what 
he  does  to-day. — No,  what  you'll  do.  Job  Arthur,  you'll 
set  up  another  lot  of  masters,  such  a  jolly  sight  worse 
than  what  we've  got  now.  I'd  rather  be  mastered  by 
Gerald  Barlow,  if  it  comes  to  mastering,  than  by  Job 
Arthur  Freer — oh,  such  a  lot!  You'll  be  far  less  free 
with  Job  Arthur  for  your  boss  than  ever  you  were  with 
Gerald  Barlow.  You'll  be  far  more  degraded. — In  fact, 
though  I've  preached  socialism  in  the  market-place  for 
thirty  years — if  you're  going  to  start  killing  the  masters 
to  set  yourselves  up  for  bosses — why,  kill  me  along  with 
the  masters.  For  I  'd  rather  die  with  somebody  who  has 
one  tiny  little  spark  of  decency  left — though  it  is  a  little 
tiny  spark — than  live  to  triumph  with  those  that  have 
none. 

Voices.  Shut  thy  face,  Houghton — shut  it  up — 
shut  him  up — hustle  the  beggar !  Hoi ! — hoi-ee ! — whoo ! 
— whoam-it,  whoam-it ! — whoo ! — bow-wow ! — wet- whisk- 
ers!  

Willie.  And  it's  no  use  you  making  fools  of  your- 
selves   (His  words  are  lieard  fhrougli  an  ugly,  jeer- 
ing,  cold  commotion.) 

Voice  (loudly).    He's  comin'. 

Voices.    Who? 

Voice.     Barlow. — See  's  motor? — comin'  up — sithee? 

Willie.     If  you've  any  sense  left (Suddenly  and 

violently  disappears.) 

Voices.  Sorry! — he's  comin' — 's  comin' — sorry,  ah! 
Who's  in? — That's  Turton  drivin' — yi,  he's  behind  wi' 


TOUCH  AND  GO  93 

a  woman — ah,  he 's  comin ' — he  '11  none  go  back — hold  on. 

Sorry! — wheer's    'e  comin'? — up  from  Loddo — ay 

(The  cries  die  down — the  motor  car  slowly  comes  into 
sight,  Oliver  driving,  Gerald  and  Anabel  behind.  The 
men  stand  in  a  mass  in  the  ivay.) 

Oliver.     Mind  yourself,  there.     (Laughter,) 

Gerald.     Go  ahead,  Oliver. 

Voice.     What's  yer  'urry? 

(Crowd  sways  and  surges  on  the  car.  Oliver  is  sud- 
denly dragged  out.  Gerald  stands  up — he,  too,  is 
seized  from  behind — he  wrestles — is  torn  out  of  his 
greatcoat — then  falls — disappears.  Loud  cries — 
*'Hi! — hoi! — hoiee!" — all  the  while.  The  car 
shakes  and  presses  uneasily.) 

Voice.     Stop  the  blazin'  motor,  somebody. 

Voice.  Here  y'  are! — hold  a  minute.  (A  man  jumps 
in  and  stops  the  engine — he  drops  in  the  driver^ s  seat.) 

Collier  (outside  the  car).     Step  down,  miss. 

Anabel.     I  am  Mrs.  Barlow. 

Collier.  Missis,  then.  (Laugh.)  Step  down — lead 
'er  forrard.    Take  'em  forrard — take  'em  forrard. 

Job  Arthur.     Ay,  make  a  road. 

Gerald.  You're  makin'  a  proper  fool  of  yourself 
now,  Freer. 

Job  Arthur.  You've  brought  it  on  yourself.  You've 
made  fools  of  plenty  of  men. 

Colliers.  Come  on,  now — come  on!  Whoa! — whoa! 
— he's  a  jibber — go  pretty  now,  go  pretty! 

Voices  (suddenly).  Lay  hold  o'  Houghton — nab  'im 
— «eize  'im — rats! — rats!^bring  'im  forrard! 


94  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Anabel  (in  a  loud,  clear  voice).  I  never  knew  any- 
thing so  ridiculous. 

Y oiCES  (falsetto).  Ridiculous!  Oh,  ridiculous !  Mind 
the  step,  dear! — I^m  Mrs.  Barlow! — Oh,  are  you? — 
Tweet — tweet ! 

Job  Arthur.  Make  a  space,  boys,  make  a  space. 
(He  stands  with  prisoner's  in  a  cleared  space  before  tlie 
obelisk.)  Now — now — quiet  a  minute — we  want  to  ask 
a  few  questions  of  these  gentlemen. 

Voices.  Quiet ! — quiet ! — Sh-h-h !  Sh-h-h ! — Answer 
pretty — answer  pretty  now ! — Quiet ! — Shh-h-h ! 

Job  Arthur.  We  want  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Gerald  Bar- 
low, why  you  have  given  occasion  for  this  present 
trouble. 

Gerald.     You  are  a  fool. 

Voices.  Oh! — oh! — naughty  Barlow! — naughty  baa- 
lamb— answer  pretty — answer  pretty — be  good  baa- 
lamb— ^baa — baa! — answer  pretty  when  gentleman  asks 
you. 

Job  Arthur.  Quiet  a  bit.  Sh-h-h! — We  put  this 
plain  question  to  you,  Mr.  Barlow.  Why  did  you  refuse 
to  give  the  clerks  this  just  and  fair  advance,  when  you 
knew  that  by  refusing  you  would  throw  three  thousand 
men  out  of  employment  ? 

Gerald.     You  are  a  fool,  I  say. 

Voices,  Oh! — oh! — won't  do — won't  do.  Barlow — 
wrong  answer — wrong  answer — be  good  baa-lamb — 
naughty  boy — naughty  boy! 

Job  Arthur.  Quiet  a  bit — now! — If  three  thousand 
men  ask  you  a  just,  straightforward  question,  do  you 
consider  they've  no  right  to  an  answer? 

Gerald.     I  would  answer  you  with  my  foot. 


TOUCH  AND  GO  95 

Voices  (amid  a  threatening  scuffle).  Da-di-da !  Hark 
ye — hark  ye!  Oh — whoa — whoa  a  bit! — won't  do! — 
won't  do! — naughty — naughty — say  you're  sorry — say 
you're  sorry — kneel  and  say  you're  sorry — kneel  and  beg 
pardon ! 

Job  Arthur.     Hold  on  a  bit — keep  clear ! 

Voices.  Make  him  kneel — make  him  kneel — on  his 
knees  with  him ! 

Job  Arthur.     I  think  you'd  better  kneel  down. 

(TJie  crowd  press  on  Gerald — Jie  struggles — tJiey  Jiit  Mm 
beJiind  tJie  knees,  force  Jiim  down.) 

Oliver.     This  is  shameful  and  unnecessary. 
Voices.     All  of  'em — on  your  knees — all  of  'em — on 
their  knees ! 

(They  seize  Oliver  and  Willie  and  Anabel,  hustling. 
Anabel  kneels  quietly — the  others  struggle.) 

Willie.    Well,  of  all  the  damned,  dirty,  cowardly 


Voices.  Shut  up,  Houghton — shut  him  up — squeeze 
him! 

Oliver.     Get  off  me — let  me  alone — I'll  kneel. 

Voices.  Good  little  doggies — nice  doggies — kneel  and 
beg  pardon — yap-yap — answer — make  him  answer! 

Job  Arthur  (holding  up  his  hand  for  silence).  It 
would  be  better  if  you  answered  straight  ofP,  Barlow. 
We  want  to  know  why  you  prevented  that  advance. 

Voices  (after  a  pau^e).  Nip  his  neck!  Make  him 
yelp! 

Oliver.     Let  me  answer,  then. — Because  it's  worse, 


96  TOUCH  AND  GO 

perhaps,  to  be  bullied  by  three  thousand  men  than  by- 
one  man. 

Voices.  Oh! — oh! — dog  keeps  barking — stuff  his 
mouth — stop  him  up — here's  a  bit  of  paper — answer, 
Barlow — nip  his  neck — stuff  his  mug — make  him  yelp — 
cork  the  bottle ! 

(They  press  a  lump  of  newspaper  into  Oliver ^s  moutli, 
and  hear  down  on  Gerald.^ 

Job  Arthur.  Quiet — quiet — quiet  a  minute,  every- 
body. We  give  him  a  minute — we  give  him  a  minute  to 
answer. 

Voices.  Give  him  a  minute — a  holy  minute — say  your 
prayers.  Barlow — you've  got  a  minute — tick-tick,  says 
the  clock — time  him ! 

Job  Arthur.     Keep  quiet. 

Willie.     Of  all  the  damned,  cowardly 

Voices.  Sh-h-h! — Squeeze  him — throttle  him!  Si- 
lence is  golden,  Houghton. — Close  the  shutters,  Willie's 
dead. — Dry  up,  wet  whiskers ! 

Job  Arthur.     You've  fifteen  seconds. 

Voices.     There's  a  long,  long  trail  a-winding 

Job  Arthur.  The  minute's  up. — ^We  ask  you  again, 
Gerald  Barlow,  why  you  refused  a  just  and  fair  demand, 
when  you  know  it  was  against  the  wishes  of  three  thou- 
sand men  all  as  good  as  yourself. 

Voices.  And  a  sight  better — I  don 't  think — we  're  not 
all  vermin — we're  not  all  crawlers,  living  off  the  sweat  of 
other  folks — we're  not  all  parish  vermin — parish  vermin. 

Job  Arthur.    And  on  what  grounds  do  you  think  you 


TOUCH  AND  GO  97 

have  no  occasion  to  answer  the  straightforward  question 
we  put  you  here  ? 

Anabel  (after  a  pause).  Answer  them,  Gerald. 
What's  the  use  of  prolonging  this? 

Gerald.     I've  nothing  to  answer. 

Voices.  Nothing  to  answer — Gerald,  darling — Ger- 
ald, duckie — oh,  lovey-dovey — I've  nothing  to  answer — 
no,  by  God — no,  by  God,  he  hasna — nowt  to  answer — 
ma  'e  him  find  summat,  then — answer  for  him — gi  'e  him 's 
answer — let  him  ha'e  it — go  on — mum — mum — lovey- 
dovey — rub  his  nose  in  it — kiss  the  dFrt,  ducky — bend 
him  down — rub  his  nose  in — he's  saying  something — oh, 
no,  he  isn't — sorry  I  spoke — bend  him  down! 

Job  Arthur.     Quiet  a  bit — quiet  everybody — he's  got 

to  answer — keep  quiet. — Now (A  silence.)     Now 

then.  Barlow,  will  you  answer,  or  won't  you?    (Silence.) 

Anabel.     Answer  them,  Gerald — never  mind. 

Voices.     Sh-h-h!    Sh-h-h!     (Silence.) 

Job  Arthur.    You  won't  answer.  Barlow? 

Voice.     Down  the  beggar ! 

Voices.     Down  him — put  his  nose  down — flatten  him ! 

(The  crowd  surges  and  begins  to  Jiowl — tJiey  sway  dan- 
gerously— Gerald  is  spread-eagled  on  the  floor,  face 
down.) 

Job  Arthur.    Back — back— back  a  minute — back — 
back!    (They  recoil.) 
Willie.     I  hope  there's  a  God  in  heaven. 
Voices.    Put  him  down — flatten  him  I 

C Willie  is  flattened  on  the  ground.) 


98  TOUCH  AND  GO 

Job  Arthur.  Now  then — now  then — if  you  won't 
answer,  Barlow,  I  can't  stand  here  for  you  any  more. — 
Take  your  feet  off  him,  boys,  and  turn  him  over.  Turn 
him  over — ^let  us  look  at  him.  Let  us  see  if  he  can 
speak.  (Tliey  turn  Mm  over,  witli  anotJier  scuffle.)  Now 
then.  Barlow — you  can  see  the  sky  above  you.  Now  do 
you  think  you  're  going  to  play  with  three  thousand  men, 
with  their  lives  and  with  their  souls? — now  do  you  think 
you're  going  to  answer  them  with  your  foot? — do  you — 
do  you  ? 

(TJie  crowd  lias  begun  to  sway  and  Jieave  dangerously, 
with  a  low,  muffled  roar,  above  wMcJi  is  heard  Job 
Arthur's  voice.  As  he  ceases,  the  roar  breaks  into 
a  yell — the  crowd  heaves.) 

Voices.  Down  him — crack  the  vermin — on  top  of  him 
— put  your  foot  on  the  vermin ! 

Anabel  (with  a  loud,  piercing  cry,  suddenly  starting 
up).  Ah,  no!  Ah,  no!  Ah-h-h-h  no-o-o-o!  Ah-h-h-h 
no-o-o-o !  Ah-h-h-h  no-o-o-o !  No-o-o-o !  No-o-o-o !  No-o ! 
No-o-o! — Ah-h-h-h! — it's  enough,  it's  enough,  it's 
enough — he 's  a  man  as  you  are.  He 's  a  man  as  you  are. 
He's  a  man  as  you  are.  He's  a  man  as  you  are.  (Weeps 
— a  breath  of  silence.) 

Oliver.  Let  us  stop  now — ^let  us  stop  now.  Let  me 
stand  up.  (Silence.)  I  want  to  stand  up.  (A  muffled 
noise.) 

Voice.    Let  him  get  up.    ('Oliver  rises.) 

Oliver.  Be  quiet.  Be  quiet. — Now — choose !  Choose ! 
Choose!  Choose  what  you  will  do!  Only  choose! 
Choose! — it  will  be  irrevocable.     (A  moment's  pause.) 


TOUCH  AND  GO  99 

Thank  God  we  haven't  gone  too  far. — Gerald,  get  up. 
(Men  still  liold  Mm  down.) 

Job  Arthur.  Isn't  he  to  answer  us?  Isn't  he  going 
to  answer  us  ? 

Oliver.  Yes,  he  shall  answer  you.  He  shall  answer 
you.  But  let  him  stand  up.  No  more  of  this.  Let  him 
stand  up.  He  must  stand  up.  (Men  still  hold  Gerald 
down.)  Oliver  takes  liold  of  tlieir  Jiands  and  removes 
tJiem.)  Let  go — let  go  now.  Yes,  let  go — yes — I  ask  you 
to  let  go.  (Slowly,  sidlenly,  the  men  let  go.  Gerald  is 
free,  hut  he  does  not  move.)  There — get  up,  Gerald! 
Get  up !  You  aren  't  hurt,  are  you  ?  You  must  get  up 
— it's  no  use.  We're  doing  our  best — you  must  do 
yours.  When  things  are  like  this,  we  have  to  put  up 
with  what  we  get.  f Gerald  rises  slowly  and  faces  the 
moh.  They  roar  dully.)  You  ask  why  the  clerks  didn't 
get  this  increase?  Wait!  Wait!  Do  you  still  wish  for 
any  answer,  Mr.  Freer? 

Job  Arthur.  Yes,  that's  what  we've  been  waiting 
for. 

Olr^r.     Then  answer,  Gerald. 

Gerald.     They  've  trodden  on  my  face. 

Oliver.  No  matter.  Job  Arthur  will  easily  answer 
that  you  've  trodden  on  their  souls.  Don 't  start  an  alter- 
cation.   (The  crowd  is  beginning  to  roar.) 

Gerald.  You  want  to  know  why  the  clerks  didn't 
get  their  rise? — Because  you  interfered  and  attempted 
to  bully  about  it,  do  you  see.    That's  why. 

Voices.  You  want  bullying. — You  '11  get  bullying,  you 
will. 

Oliver.  Can't  you  see  it's  no  good,  either  side?  It's 
no  mortal  use.    We  might  as  well  all  die  to-morrow,  or 


100  TOUCH  AND  GO 

to-day,  or  this  minute,  as  go  on  bullying  one  another, 
one  side  bullying  the  other  side,  and  the  other  side  bul- 
lying back.    We'd  hetter  all  die. 

Willie.  And  a  great  deal  better.  I  'm  damned  if  I  '11 
take  sides  with  anybody  against  anything,  after  this.  If 
I'm  to  die,  I'll  die  by  myself.  As  for  living,  it  seems 
impossible. 

Job  Arthur.  Have  the  men  nothing  to  be  said  for 
their  side  ? 

Oliver.  They  have  a  great  deal — but  not  everything, 
you  see. 

Job  Arthur.  Haven't  they  been  wronged?  And 
aren't  they  wronged? 

Oliver.  They  have — and  they  are.  But  haven't  they 
been  wrong  themselves,  too? — and  aren't  they  wrong 
now? 

Job  Arthur.     How? 

Oliver.  What  about  this  affair?  Do  you  call  it 
right? 

Job  Arthur.     Haven't  we  been  driven  to  it? 

Oliver.  Partly.  And  haven 't  you  driven  the  masters 
to  it,  as  well  ? 

Job  Arthur.     I  don't  see  that. 

Oliver.  Can't  you  see  that  it  takes  two  to  make  a 
quarrel?  And  as  long  as  each  party  hangs  on  to  its 
own  end  of  the  stick  and  struggles  to  get  full  hold  of 
the  stick,  the  quarrel  will  continue.  It  will  continue  till 
you've  killed  one  another.  And  even  then,  what  better 
shall  you  be  ?  What  better  would  you  be,  really,  if  you  'd 
killed  Gerald  Barlow  just  now?  You  wouldn't,  you 
know.     We're  all  human  beings,  after  all.     And  why 


TOUCH  AND  GO  101 

can't  we  try  really  to  leave  off  struggling  against  one 
another,  and  setup  a  new  state  of  things? 

Job  Arthur.  That's  all  very  well,  you  see,  while 
you've  got  the  goods. 

Oliver.     I've  got  very  little,  I  assure  j^ou. 

Job  Arthur.  Well,  if  you  haven't,  those  you  mix 
with  have.  They've  got  the  money,  and  the  power,  and 
they  intend  to  keep  it. 

Oliver.  As  for  power,  somebody  must  have  it,  you 
know.  It  only  rests  with  you  to  put  it  into  the  hands 
of  the  best  men,  the  men  you  really  believe  in. — And  as 
for  money,  it's  life,  it's  living  that  matters,  not  simply 
having  money. 

Job  Arthur.     You  can't  live  without  money. 

Oliver.  I  know  that.  And  therefore  why  can't  we 
have  the  decency  to  agree  simply  about  money — just 
agree  to  dispose  of  it  so  that  all  men  could  live  their 
own  lives. 

Job  Arthur.  That's  what  we  want  to  do.  But  the 
others,  such  as  Gerald  Barlow,  they  keep  the  money — 
and  the  power. 

Oliver.  You  see,  if  you  wanted  to  arrange  things 
so  that  money  flowed  more  naturally,  so  that  it  flowed 
naturally  to  every  man,  according  to  his  needs,  I  think 
we  could  all  soon  agree.  But  you  don't.  What  you 
want  is  to  take  it  away  from  one  set  and  give  it  to  an- 
other— or  keep  it  yourselves. 

Job  Arthur.  We  want  every  man  to  have  his  proper 
share. 

Oliver.  I'm  sure  I  do.  I  want  every  man  to  be 
able  to  live  and  be  free.  But  we  shall  never  manage 
it  by  fighting  over  the  money.     If  you  want  what  is 


102  TOUCH  AND  GO 

natura^  and  good,  I  'm  sure  the  owners  would  soon  agree 
with  you. 

Job  Arthur.     What?    Gerald  Barlow  agree  with  us? 

Oliver.     Why  not  ?    I  believe  so. 

Job  Arthur.     You  ask  him. 

Oliver.  Do  you  think,  Gerald,  that  if  the  men  really 
wanted  a  whole,  better  way,  you  would  agree  with  them  ? 

Gerald.  I  want  a  better  way  myself — ^but  not  their 
way. 

Job  Arthur.     There,  you  see! 

Voices.  Ah-h !  look  you ! — That 's  him — ^that  's  him  all 
over. 

Oliver.  You  want  a  better  way, — but  not  his  way: 
he  wants  a  better  way — ^but  not  your  way.  Why  can't 
you  both  drop  your  buts,  and  simply  say  you  want  a 
better  way,  and  believe  yourselves  and  one  another  when 
you  say  it  ?    Why  can 't  you  ? 

Gerald.  Look  here!  I'm  quite  as  tired  of  my  way 
of  life  as  you  are  of  yours.  If  you  make  me  believe  you 
want  something  better,  then  I  assure  you  I  do:  I  want 
what  you  want.  But  Job  Arthur  Freer 's  not  the  man 
to  lead  you  to  anything  better.  You  can  tell  what  peo- 
ple want  by  the  leaders  they  choose,  do  you  see?  You 
choose  leaders  whom  I  respect,  and  I'll  respect  you,  do 
you  see?    As  it  is,  I  don't.     And  now  I'm  going. 

Voices.     Who  says? — Oh  ay! — ^Who  says  goin'? 

Gerald.  Yes,  I  'm  going.  About  this  affair  here  we  '11 
cry  quits ;  no  more  said  about  it.  About  a  new  way  of 
life,  a  better  way  all  round — I  tell  you  I  want  it  and 
need  it  as  much  as  ever  you  do.  I  don't  care  about 
money  really.     But  I'm  never  going  to  be  bullied. 

Voice.     Who  doesn't  care  about  money? 


TOUCH  AND  60  103 

Gerald  I  don't.  I  think  we  ouRht  to  be  able  to 
alter  the  whole  system-but  not  by  bullying,  not  because 
one  lot  wants  what  the  other  has  got. 

Voice     No,  because  you've  got  everything. 

Gerald.  Where's  my  coat?  Now  then,  step  out  of 
(TJieij  move  towards  the  car.) 

(Curtain.) 


^   V 


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